Neville Longbottom and the Smaragdine Table
by ZoinksIncorporated
Summary: AU. Neville Longbottom is The Boy Who Lived, but spent his whole childhood abroad. Find out what happens when he returns to the UK for his first year of Hogwarts. Unexpected friendships and adventure await!
1. Prologue Part 1: Dark Tidings

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..."_

**February 5**

Severus Snape made his way through the dark caverns of Lord Voldemorts's hidden headquarters. Ignoring the dank odor and pooling puddles, he strode quickly and purposefully through the corridors, having memorized the path to his lord's inner sanctum. He was shaking, not from the drenching rain and bone-chilling temperatures of early February, but with fear, thrill, and anticipation.

The young Death Eater had only recently been awarded with the honor of Inner Circle membership, mainly on account of his formidable Potions skills and clever strategies. Snape was anxious to deliver his most recent news, but wary that he could rise swiftly or fall steeply depending on the reception of the information.

He approached the threshold of the Dark Lord's most private chamber, then dropped swiftly to the floor, pressing his head to the ground in standard supplication to his master. It was habitual and compulsory, though Snape had never adapted well to servitude, even after a year as a Death Eater.

"Snape… what business have _you_ with the Dark Lord?"

Bellatrix Lestrange appeared as if from nowhere, emerging from the shadows. Severus grimaced imperceptibly: he wasn't fond of Bellatrix, with her perverse inclinations and overtly cultish fawning over their master. She fancied herself his most trusted and devoted follower, though Snape habitually thought that their master viewed them more or less equally, as disposable pawns in the game between him and Dumbledore. Of course, Severus had chosen his side, the right side, and played his role well, but occasionally in the privacy of his Occlumency-fortified thoughts, he wondered if perhaps there should be more to a life.

"I have information for our Lord – and for our Lord alone."

"You shall tell me first, then." Bella paused and grinned with malice.

"I will determine from whatever lowly information you must have whether it is worth my Lord's pain of hearing it from your accursed half-blood's lips."

Snape kept his head pressed to the floor, refusing to rise to the bait. He had snarky comebacks in spades, but he knew his master often lurked in the caverns, and didn't wish to give him an excuse for torture.

"I am a loyal follower of our Lord, and whatever information I have I will give directly to him. I would not risk his wrath and confide in you before he has heard it himself."

With an angry screech at his clever maneuvering, Bellatrix bent down, spraying spit in his face as she cursed him.

"No matter what, you're still infected by that foul Muggle blood in your veins, and you shall never rise above it. You're a mere lackey to do the bidding of our Lord. Don't forget your place, or I won't hesitate to remind you of it." She licked her lips nastily, relishing the prospect.

"Bella," and both Death Eaters were shocked to see their lord emerge almost silently from the sanctum, standing above them. Bellatrix hastily pressed herself into a similar prostrate position as Severus.

"I believe you have overstepped your bounds," he said quietly but dangerously. He walked round the two Death Eaters, his robes swirling impressively.

"My Lord, I only live to serve you and I thought-"

"_Crucio._"

Snape attempted to keep his eyes fixed to the floor, but he could not ignore the piercing cries and thumps as Bellatrix's body jerked on the floor under Voldemort's wand.

"That is precisely why I am displeased," he said calmly, lifting the Unforgivable. Bella's body continued to thrash a bit, as the Dark Lord continued.

"You do _not_ think, my servant: I think for you, and you carry out my commands. You are a valuable instrument to me, but do not presume to speak for your master again."

"Y-yes, Master," came Bellatrix's reply, as she crawled to kiss his robes. The snake-faced man allowed her, before removing himself from her touch.

"Go, and tell Lucius to be ready for my summons."

"Yes, Master." Bellatrix rose and left the chamber without complaint, but shot a venomous glare at Snape before exiting.

"Rise, Severus."

Snape got to his feet, trembling inside but attempting to show no evidence of emotion before his master. The Dark Lord swept back into his chamber, and Severus quickly followed him into the heart of Voldemort's sanctum.

Severus felt his heart beating painfully in his chest. He hadn't been alone with his master during his tenure in the Death Eaters. Snape knew his Potions knowledge was exceedingly useful to the Dark Lord, and it certainly was the one thing that kept him from having to partake in some of the other, more gruesome Death Eater activities. But Severus knew that tonight could change everything for him, that he could finally be elevated to a higher status, a position of importance he had longed for… or could be Crucioed, dismembered, and fed to Voldemort's snakes before the night was over.

"Now tell me, my devoted friend," Voldemort's said with a slight smile, "what is this news that you are so desperate to impart to your Lord?"

*~*-*~*-*~*-*~*

Lucius Malfoy paced in the spacious study of Malfoy Manor, an uncommon scowl marring his aristocratic features. An unexpected visit from Bellatrix, his deplorable sister-in-law, was never a pleasant surprise and Lucius was relieved that she did not stay long. But told to expect a summons from his master, Lucius now spent his time running through his various missions, hoping that all were moving with the efficiency and purpose to meet the Dark Lord's requirements. He feared the response for poor results.

Suddenly the man was gripped with pain, his Dark Mark burning his skin, boldly black on his arm. He'd never felt the mark burn so fiercely before, not even when he'd had it first branded as a young, power-hungry man just coming into his inheritance after his final year at Hogwarts.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the pain, focusing on his master and Apparating to the Dark Lord's side. With a small pop, he appeared before his lord's chair, and immediately knelt to the ground.

"My Lord-"

"Stand up, Lucius."

The man was surprised, his silky greetings and tributes had never been cut off so quickly before. Regarding his master, Voldemort's face was impassive as always, but he could see an odd gleam in his red eyes, and an impatient tone to his voice. Turning his gaze, he was equally surprised to find Severus Snape standing at the side of his master.

Unlike Bellatrix, Lucius felt a stirring of pride at Snape's sudden position in the Dark Lord's good graces: Malfoy had reached out to the young teen during his Hogwarts days, encouraging his interest in the Dark Arts and assisting him in his progress. After Snape's graduation, Malfoy had been the primary advocate for his induction into the Death Eaters, assuring his master that Snape would be a valuable asset in the future. Apparently, his foresight had paid off.

"Everything stops."

Lucius's attention rocketed back to his master, who seemed to be looking into the distance.

"My Lord?"

"You are to put all your resources and skills to use in the next five months, monitoring the births of new wizards and witches. Use your society connections to note the dates and parentage: purebloods, half bloods, and even pathetic Mudbloods. On the first of August, you are to collect the magical birth register in the Ministry of Magic, and bring it before me along with your own records. You are to say nothing of this to anyone, your only contact in this matter will be myself and Snape."

"Of course, my Lord."

"I would _loathe_ to be in your position should you miss even _one_ child, Lucius."

Lucius bowed deeply, putting the Dark Lord's orders to memory. The plans were to stop simply for magical children born in the spring? He had three surveillance teams in the field, one assassination plot quietly unfolding, and an upcoming summit with envoys from Dark creatures and sympathetic wizarding groups on the continent. Lucius did his best to end his speculations and simply obey, but he paled slightly at the sudden thought of his wife, Narcissa, due in the summer with the Malfoy heir.

"I will be gone for sometime, on a mission of the utmost importance. I will be alone." Voldemort seemed to be talking almost to himself, barely giving a glance to his followers before him.

"Bellatrix is to continue the current recruitment strategies. All others will simply continue their individual assignments, building towards the grand takeover. The assaults on Muggles and blood traitors will be on hold, but attacks against the Order will continue as planned. You are to disseminate this information through the ranks: Severus will assist you."

Both men knelt before their master, one sufficiently pleased at his performance and Voldemort's recognition of the importance of his information; the other, mildly disturbed for his own pureblood family that was somehow a possible target of the Dark Lord.

"This conversation does _not_ leave this room."

"Yes, my Lord," both men returned obediently, but with Voldemort's pop of Apparition, they couldn't help but regard each other carefully. Then with a quick nod, Lucius strode out of the cave, ready to communicate the Dark Lord's orders to the rest of the Death Eaters, but still internally shaken. He growled internally, still unable to fully shake his questions and severe sense of foreboding.

*~*-*~*-*~*-*~*

"_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."_

**August 1**

Severus Snape sat calmly in Malfoy Manor, sipping his glass of brandy. Lucius had gone to copy the register of magical births, and Snape had offered to remain behind and look after little Draco, the Malfoy's two-month-old son. As was the custom in pureblood families, Narcissa had remained in seclusion with Draco for the first seven weeks, and only now was the young Malfoy heir formally introduced to society. Snape was to be the child's godfather, though in some cases he was unsure if it was due to his friendship with the family or his new status in the Dark Lord's inner circle.

The last few months had seen Severus elevated in the Dark Lord's eyes, as Voldemort had taken to demanding frequent private audiences with the man, valuing his observations and discoveries, as well as grilling him on the "independent research project" that Voldemort had given Lucius. Snape was not directly involved, but could report on Lucius' tireless efforts to personally track and record every wizarding birth in the United Kingdom.

As July came to a close, Lucius had turned his attention partly to infiltrating the Hall of Records. He certainly had the clout and connections, but copying the tome of wizarding births would need to be done swiftly and secretly. Severus felt it was a good plan, in the end, but glanced at the Malfoy's towering grandfather clock: Lucius should have been back by now.

As if on cue, Lucius Apparated into the study and threw up privacy and repelling wards immediately. Snape rose from his seat and helped to seal the room. Confident they were truly alone, he turned to his old friend.

"Well?"

Lucius gave a nod, and removed the duplicate book from under his heavy cloak.

"I'd like to go through, cross-reference my list with the registry."

"Yes, we should certainly discover any discrepancies before the Dark Lord does," Severus agrees. Lucius nodded, then took a sharp look around the room.

"Where is Draco?"

"He's been asleep for the better part of the afternoon. I placed notification charms around the bassinette: if he wakes, we will be alerted immediately."

Lucius sighed in relief. Severus was curious about the older Malfoy's odd concern for his son. Lucius had never even shown much emotion for his wife prior to her pregnancy and was likewise less than affectionate after Narcissa was free from seclusion. But with his son, Lucius had been exhibiting attention that was certainly fatherly, and bordered on paranoid. Snape reasoned it must be because Draco was his heir and at his most vulnerable, though it seemed to be more than that.

"Waaaaaaaah!"

An amplified infant wail cut through his pondering. Lucius strode out of the room quickly to attend to the howls of his awakened son. Snape took another sip of brandy, then moved to examine the registry.

From his own eavesdropping of the prophecy in the first place, Severus could certainly guess what Voldemort would want, if not _do_, with the registry. He quickly flipped through the births of the early part of the year, coming swiftly to the end of the book to the July births. It filled only half the page, as the top had remaining June listings. He looked closely at the listing:

**July 1, 1980 ~ Margaret Ann Millbanks (Muggle-born)**

**July 3, 1980 ~ Damian Holmsfin (Pureblood)**

**July 10, 1980 ~ Tamsin Smiethers (Half-blood)**

**July 14, 1980 ~ Oleana Nagora Runelace (Pureblood)**

**July 14, 1980 ~ Odessa Welxham Runelace (Pureblood)**

Flipping the page, Severus read the final entries in the registry:

**July 22, 1980 ~ Virginia Johnston (Muggle-born)**

**July 30, 1980 ~ Neville Francis Longbottom (Pureblood)**

**July 31, 1980 ~ Harry James Potter (Half-blood)**

Suddenly, Severus felt his throat constrict, and his previously calm demeanor evaporate. His hand started to shake, and he quickly closed the book, pushing it away from him and into the position Lucius had left it. Sitting back in his chair, Snape willed himself to be calm.

Malfoy strode back into the room, grabbing the register. His Dark Mark burned again impatiently, and Lucius flinched. Severus regarded him questioningly.

"He's returned," Lucius said shortly.

Snape looked at his own mark, cool and inert on his skin.

"He hasn't called me," he replied softy, not trusting himself to speak more than was necessary.

Lucius sighed again. "I'd wanted to go through each entry first, but it can't be helped… very well. You'll come for dinner tomorrow? Narcissa wants to go through the details for the naming ceremony, when you are formally declared Draco's godfather."

"Yes, of course."

Lucius Apparated away, leaving Severus to enter a state of panic.

Lily's son was born yesterday. Lily's son was a target of the Dark Lord. Lily would die.

Lily.

Cursing himself, he swallowed the rest of his brandy and Apparated to Spinner's End, the old, abandoned house where he'd grown up. The house had been empty since the deaths of his parents, and now was the first time in quite a while that he had returned. It had been an accursed, lonely childhood, Snape reflected as he walked through the drab, dusty living room - lonely until he'd met Lily Evans and her obnoxious sister Petunia.

Lily. He'd not seen her since their graduation, but he knew she was in that bloody Order of the Phoenix: some of the Charms on their disguises and wards reeked of Lily's handiwork. Severus had even helped her create some of them in their early Hogwarts years, just as she contributed greatly to his prodigious potions abilities, and set him on the path to making innovative, daring potions that would destroy lesser minds.

They were two of a kind in terms of sheer genius and had been close until that fateful day in fifth year. Snape grimaced thinking about it, when he pushed Lily away and eventually in to the arms of Potter. He'd washed his hands of Lily Evans long ago, putting his unrequited love for her into the deepest recesses of his mind and locking it tightly. She had chosen her way, and he his. But now the memories had broken free, and it was _his_ choices, _his_ loyalties, _and his_ actions that were going to lead to her death. And despite Severus' allegiance to the Dark Lord, he knew that he would rather destroy himself than allow Lily to be killed because of him.

Severus could trust no one. He doubted Lily would receive him now, after so long and the obvious path he had chosen. Her boor of a husband and his absolutely abhorrent friends would kill him on sight. And the Dark Lord cared little for sentiment or for Mudbloods: the idea of asking Voldemort to spare Lily was downright laughable, if Severus had had enough air in his lungs to do so. There was really only one place to turn, though it was a repellent idea.

"Is she worth it?" he muttered to himself, now stalking up the stairs, headed for his teenage bedroom. "Is she worth me giving up everything I've worked for, betraying my associates at possible cost to my life?"

He looked round the room, and again remembered how Lily was the only thing that made summers tolerable in Spinner's End, how Lily had cared for him when every other child at Hogwarts, whether Gryffindor or Slytherin despised him, taunted him, hexed him. And he made his decision.

He had to request an audience with the savior of the Light, the last great hope, the crackpot, Muggle-loving fool Albus Dumbledore.

*~*-*~*-*~*-*~*

"_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…"_

**August 25**

"But the Ethiopian side trains regularly against Morocco, and they're the best squad in Africa!"

"Can't count out those Poles though Benj, they invented the Wronski Feint after all. Master tacticians on that side."

Lily Potter sat beside her husband, half annoyed and half amused by his stirring conversation with Benjy Fenwick about the upcoming Quidditch match between Ethiopia and Poland. Discussing the merits of Seekers, the speed of Snitches, and various strategies and maneuvers was never Lily's favorite activity, but she appreciated any diversion from the horror that had been unfolding this year.

1980 was turning out to be a high point for terror by the Death Eaters, and increasingly, Voldemort himself. She and James had escaped fatal harm dozens of times, and three times from Voldemort, but she was beginning to think that luck might be running out. In the past months, Voldemort and the Death Eaters wiped out Marlene McKinnon, Edgar Bones, and their entire families, and the sadistic Dark wizard had personally hunted down Dorcas Meadowes just two weeks ago. Marlene had been a dear school friend in Lily's year, also in Gryffindor, while Edgar was Head Boy in Lily's fourth year. Not to mention that Caradoc Dearborn was currently missing, which had prompted this Order of the Phoenix meeting to take place. If not for the birth of Harry, Lily might have lost hope that they could win the war without destroying everyone in Britain first, but her son had renewed her strength and conviction in fighting for the Order.

She smiled as across the room, Frank and Alice Longbottom showed a picture of their young son to Mad-Eye Moody and the Prewett brothers, Fabian and Gideon. Alice and Lily been in the same ward in St. Mungo's and their sons were born seven hours apart, Neville just before midnight on the 30th of July while Harry came bright and early the next morning. It was a difficult time to bring a child into the world, Lily reflected, but it made both couples work that much harder to eradicate Voldemort.

"Well Benj, we'll find out if you're right in a week or so. But I'm still going with Poland for the Snitch and the win," James stood up and shook hands with the other man.

"You're gonna owe me, James. And don't think I won't come to collect," Fetwick responded good-naturedly.

"James? Lily?" The two looked up to see Albus Dumbledore looking at them expectantly. "I'd like a moment of your time, if that would be agreeable?"

The couple exchanged glances. "Of course, Albus."

Benjy gave the Headmaster of Hogwarts a quick nod, and swept from his seat. Now left in the temporary headquarters for the Order were the Longbottoms and the Potters. Frank, brash Auror that he was, leapt right into it.

"Now what's this all about, Albus?"

Albus held up his hand, his eyes without the familiar twinkle. "We are awaiting the arrival of one more, Frank, so I'd prefer to wait until we are all present and accounted for."

Frank nodded, the two couples looking at each other questioningly. Moments later, Sirius Black burst through the door with a large grin on his face.

"Dumbledore!" He plopped down next to James, who gave his best friend an enthusiastic slap on the back. Lily rolled her eyes, used to the Marauder greetings and flourished entrances, but still not accepting of them.

"Yes, Sirius thank you for joining us. Your buoyant spirits are always appreciated in these trying times," Dumbledore said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "However," and here the man looked far older, "new information has come to light that is of the gravest nature, and concerns all of you."

Lily, James, and Sirius shared worried glances, while Alice clutched Frank's hand for support.

"Voldemort has been made aware of a prophecy has been made, a prophecy that portends the birth of his vanquisher, someone with the power to destroy him. While he is currently sifting through detailed information, a spy within the Death Eaters has told me it is only a matter of time before he turns his attention to you, and more specifically, to Neville and Harry."

"What!" Lily cried out, outraged and fearful. Looking at her friends, she saw that Alice had gripped her husband's hand tightly and Frank's face was ashen, while poor James had an odd expression that was a disturbing mix of murderous and apprehensive. Lily looked at Sirius, and found that he was still calm, looking intently at Dumbledore. Much to her surprise and very much contrary to standard behavior, Sirius was thoughtful.

"You have a spy in the Death Eaters?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, and a most reliable and thorough one, at that. He turned spy for me despite the inherent dangers to his person if he were to be discovered. He informed me of Voldemort's knowledge of the prophecy as well as his reactions, and I fear we have little time. We must act quickly."

"But what does this have to do with Harry or Neville?" Lily asked, her hand trembling in her husband's.

The headmaster sighed, then tapped his wand to his temple and started to make a slow swirling motion. The five Order members looked to each other in confusion, but suddenly found that each could hear a harsh, feminine voice speaking clearly in their minds.

"_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

There was silence for a few minutes. Finally, Alice asked softly, "Does the prophecy apply to Neville or Harry?"

Both couples and Sirius looked to Dumbledore, who smiled kindly but sadly.

"I'm afraid there is no way to know as of yet. But the danger lies in Voldemort acting on incomplete information and attempting to murder both of the boys. You see, Voldemort does not know the entire prophecy, and may act hastily in an attempt to keep it unfulfilled."

"What can we do, Albus?" James asked. Lily squeezed her husband's hand, marveling at his ability to sound confident and strong though she knew he was as fearful for their son as she was.

"Hide," was Albus's reply. "As of this moment, you are all off active duty for the Order. Take a day or so to gather what little you may need, and relocate your family to a safe, unknown location. Send Patronuses to me with your position, and I shall come to assist in the warding of your temporary home."

All four of the Potters and Longbottoms nodded, while Sirius was unsure why he had been requested. Surely Dumbledore didn't think the prophecy applied to him.

"You can tell those closest to you that you are fleeing, but I would beseech you not to tell them where you are going. We've been aware of a spy in the Order for some time now, and you must be careful about who you trust. If Voldemort becomes aware that you've gone into hiding, we may need to use more advanced methods to keep him at bay."

Dumbledore broke off speaking, and the two couples quickly swept from the room. Sirius made to follow, but Albus stopped him.

"Sirius, I do not mean to pry into your personal affairs, but may I ask if you have been in contact with Miss Sathe recently?"

Black's turned white at the name. "I sent her letters and she never answered. I tracked down Louise Mullwags who refused to tell me anything. Even went by her family's place in Southall, but no one was there," he managed to choke out.

"Ah." Dumbledore surveyed his fingertips, and peered at Sirius closely. "Miss Sathe and her parents fled to India in late February. Did you have any correspondence with her at that time?"

"February? Yeah, it…" Sirius looked bewildered, relieved, but also cautious. "It was the last letter I got from her. I- I went to her apartment straight away, but she wasn't there. So I started writing and…"

"Was there information in that letter that you could surmise might be the reason for her sudden disappearance?"

"Well, no, not exactly but… I think I know why she left."

Dumbledore considered his next words carefully. "Then perhaps the same reasons might persuade you to seek her out."

Sirius stood still, as though he hadn't quite heard what the headmaster was saying. "Wait… you want me to _leave_? NOW? After you've told me Voldemort is going after my best mate and his wife and son, the only family I've got in the world? After you've put four Order members, two of them Aurors, out of commission to hide? Hell, the bastard's been picking us off all year: we need everybody we've got left!"

The young man's voice had been rising from incredulously to angry.

"I want you," Dumbledore replied slowly in an even tone, "to take care of _your_ family. James, Lily, and Harry will be well protected, and I'm sure Remus and Peter will do their best to make up for your absence. But Voldemort has sympathizers and allies across international borders, Sirius. And there are other threats to consider."

"How would you know? How do you know any of this?" Sirius said frustratedly.

"You were not Miss Sathe's only correspondent."

Sirius was dumbstruck as Albus removed a letter from his robes. Snatching it from the man's grasp, Black began reading the letter, his face slowly darkening and his gray eyes flashing dangerously.

"I take it you are now more amenable to my suggestion," Dumbledore said, watching his former pupil closely. Sirius simply stared at the man, then relaxed his gaze slightly and nodded. Dumbledore beamed.

"Splendid! Muggle transportation is your best means of success. A dear associate in the Muggle world has already issued you a Muggle passport and plane ticket to Bombay. Oh, and do pack an umbrella: monsoon season after all. I had already scheduled your flight for the day after tomorrow, in anticipation of your agreement. My old friend has taken the liberty…"

The words passed over Sirius's consciousness, so he could hear Dumbledore's instructions and hearty goodbye, but failed to comprehend it all, lost in his own thoughts. The man had certainly not made the best choices in his lifetime, and he'd barely made it through a quarter of it. Though with Voldemort on the loose, who knew how long he had, anyway? He was lazy, talented, arrogant, brilliant, foolish, gorgeous, insufferable, vindictive, callous, loyal, and many other colorful adjectives, depending on the speaker. By the tender age of twenty-one, Sirius had been disowned from his family, become an Animagus, dueled with his spineless, twisted Death Eater brother Regulus, defeated Hagrid in a Firewhisky drinking contest, antagonized Voldemort to his face while battling, and bedded 28 women, all mostly pretty (with a few drunken exceptions). If something was going to kill him, he thought it would be Voldy-shorts, or maybe the alcohol.

Instead, his biggest mistake ever was now confirmed to be a James Potteresque pursuit of an unfeeling, beautiful woman who wanted nothing to do with him. But unlike James and Lily's happy ending, this was nothing more than a Pyrrhic victory. Sirius Black was in trouble, and was heading straight into the lion's den to find out just how much trouble he was in.


	2. Prologue Part 2: The Chosen One

_And either must die at the hand of the other…_

**September 4**

Mortimer Grakiss shivered outside. The air was bitingly cold, a fierce wind had picked up. He drew his overcoat closer to him, though he was repulsed by it: he was a Death Eater currently dressed as a filthy Muggle. But the Dark Lord had commanded him to go to this house in the Outer Hebrides with incognito attire save the standard Death Eater masks, so here he was, freezing his arse off waiting for the others to arrive. Varmilke would be arriving with the new recruits soon, and the Dark Lord wanted them initiated with this wizarding family.

Twenty-six years old, Mortimer had served Lord Voldemort since his late Hogwarts years, but the stress of the war made him look three decades older. The man was gaunt, with a spine permanently curved into a hunch after an untreatable injury from a duel with Mad-Eye Moody. Lines were etched on his face, grooves and cuts in a chalky, alabaster complexion. But Mortimer still served faithfully…

Truth be told, Mortimer was fine with assassinating Ministry officials, slaughtering Muggles like the helpless sheep they were, killing Aurors in battle, and he itched to come face to face with any member of the accursed Order of the Phoenix and tear them apart.

But Mortimer thought there was something out of sorts showing up at doorstep of a random wizarding family and killing everyone, when the family in question had no suspicious allegiances of any kind. He might have been a bit too curious for his own good on occasion, but no matter what anyone thought, he wasn't some blind foot soldier like Crabbe or Goyle. He joined the Death Eaters out of respect and sympathy for their espoused principles and fierce hatred of Muggles, not to torture blood-traitors and half-bloods. He was a Ravenclaw, for Merlin's sake!

He went along with his orders, but didn't they need people like that? They needed to convince them why they were wrong and join the struggle for liberation, not die or be cowed into submission. Binns may have been a boring old fart, but one thing stuck out from the myriad of goblin and giant wars the ghostly professor droned on about: with rule by fear and terror, there will always be rebellion.

"You look like shit, Grakiss."

A voice broke him out of his reverie, and Mortimer spun to see Erik Varmilke sneering at him, wand in hand and lazily pointed in his general direction.

"I could say the same about you, Varmilke. Your robes are filthy. Couldn't be bothered to clean the blood after last time, eh?"

Mortimer put on an indifferent expression, but in reality Varmilke scared him a bit. He wasn't nearly as sadistic as Dolohov or as blood-hungry as Macnair, but the man definitely enjoyed torturing and killing, and had an especially disturbing taste for small children.

Varmilke looked down at his robes and scowled. "Filthy Muggles don't even know how to die without making a mess." A muttered _scourgify_ made his black Death Eater robes stain-free. He looked at his comrade with disgust.

"And you can take off that Muggle clothing too. Your surveillance is over."

Mortimer nodded and with a swish of his wand his Muggle attire was removed, revealing the robes beneath. "Where are the new recruits?"

Varmilke jerked his thumb toward the house. "I left them behind that oak tree. Wanted to get you before the fun started."

Mortimer groaned, then slipped his hood over his head. "I hope they make it quick, I'm not in the mood for a long initiation."

"These aren't Muggles, Grakiss. It's a wizarding family. For these bunch of shit-for-brains kids, it'll be at least fifteen minutes. And you know they have to prove themselves before taking the easy way out."

Mortimer sighed as Varmilke put his hood up as well. Silently walking to the oak tree, the two Death Eaters found the three new recruits standing together. Mortimer appraised the finds: one would probably do well at this, his face seemed set as though he seemed to know what to expect. The other two Mortimer wasn't sure about, they looked a bit peaky, and one's eyes were darting from the Death Eaters' hoods to the house to his fellow recruits. The third candidate had his eyes fixed on the ground, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath.

"Alright," Varmilke's slightly muffled voice came from under his hood, "there are five targets in the house: adult wizard, adult witch, fourteen year old wizard, ten year old witch, and an infant wizard. Your task: subdue all members of the home, and then we'll come in and see what you make of the Unforgivables."

"This is a Pureblood family," and as he said it, two boys looked surprised while the third simply kept his eyes on the ground and muttered again.

"So don't underestimate them. Take them out quickly, then we can play with them."

Mortimer rolled his eyes under his hood. Of course Varmilke was getting positively giddy with the prospect of torture.

"This is your initiation. And I'll let you in on a secret," the Death Eater paused while all three recruits snapped their attention to him, "this mission is of the highest importance to the Dark Lord. Succeed, and you'll find yourself becoming a full-fledged Death Eater, with all the power and prestige associated with that. Fail… well, you don't want to fail. Not in this task."

"Sir?" and all eyes turned to the muttering boy, who had finally picked his eyes up from the ground. "Do we get hoods for this exercise."

"No. You earn your hood by how well you perform tonight."

All the recruits nodded. Varmilke simply gestured with his arm toward the house.

"After you."

The three recruits made their way to the house, throwing up silencing and anti-Apparition wards as they had been trained while Mortimer and Varmilke watched from the shadows. Mortimer was impatient, he hated these torture sessions on fellow Purebloods. Varmilke seemed to be checking the time elapsed on his watch, as the wizards had no indication of the status in the house besides the colorful jets of light flying through the house indicating curses and hexes.

"Ten minutes up. Let's see how they did."

Varmilke advanced on the house, with Mortimer bringing up the rear, checking for any witnesses. As he entered the house and shut the door, he saw that the three boys had done remarkably well in rounding up the family and disarming them. The father and son were held tightly in ropes, wands pointed at each of them. Meanwhile the mother sat free on the floor, holding her quietly crying daughter whose face was pressed into her chest.

"Well well, Mr. Holmsfin," Varmilke said theatrically, "Have you any idea why we're here?"

The man quailed under the stare of the Death Eater, but found enough strength to answer.

"N-no. We're Purebloods, never associate with Muggles, give donations to the Knights of Walpurgis, and don't support Dumbledore."

Mortimer raised an eyebrow under his hood: the Knights of Walpurgis were a charity front for the Death Eaters, espousing Pureblood supremacy but also engaging in philanthropy. It had been the original name for the Dark Lord's oldest followers, preserved to promote their ideals without connection to their "evolved" activities.

Varmilke paused to consider the man. "Well, those are certainly good qualities of your lovely family. But when you're an enemy of the Dark Lord, none of those things count in your favor."

The man paled and swallowed, casting an anxious eye over his cowed family.

"P-p-please, don't hurt them."

Varmilke tutted disapprovingly.

"No begging my good man, it's not becoming of a Pureblood."

He suddenly snatched the ten-year-old from her mother's grasp, who broke into hysterics and tried to rush after the Death Eater.

"Not Patty! Please don't take my daughter!"

"_Incarcerous! Silencio!" _The trainee with his wand on her silenced and bound the woman, tears streaming from her eyes and panic in her expression. The small girl was seemingly shocked with fear, and Mortimer hastily put a _Silencio _on the father and brother as they began screaming with outrage.

Varmilke looked at Mortimer. "Supervise their Unforgivable training. I'll be back soon."

Mortimer nodded, his throat constricting with disgust as Varmilke strode from the room carrying the girl. The recruits looked mildly apprehensive, one seemed close to vomiting. Mortimer turned to them and put the attention back on their captives.

"You," he rasped, pointing at the stoic recruit. "The second Unforgivable."

The trainee in question quickly moved his wand to move from the woman it had been pointed at to the teenage wizard.

"_Crucio!"_

The teenage boy began writhing, jerking, and screaming as the curse took hold. His father looked on helplessly, as the mother continued to cry silently. The young trainee kept his eyes on the boy, not letting the curse up.

"Good," Mortimer intoned. The trainee lifted the curse, though the teenage boy kept twitching on the ground. He looked to the peaky, frightened one.

"You. The first one. On one of the others. And be creative: the Dark Lord likes creative."

The peaky-looking boy on the verge of vomiting appeared mildly calm after hearing his task. His eyes darted between the mother and father, until he finally decided on the woman.

"_Imperius."_

The woman got up, slowly, and began to undress. She ripped at her bonds, cutting her wrists, and tore off her robes in a frenzy. Mortimer started to chuckle as the now naked woman proceeded to rub against her husband, her son, the banister of the stairs, and the stoic trainee, moaning and yowling like a cat in heat.

"Good," and the peaky recruit lifted the curse, the woman collapsing to the floor in shame and fear. "Humiliation is an effective form of torture."

Mortimer turned to the last recruit, the muttering trainee. "That leaves you. You know what to do."

The young man winced, and turned his wand on the father, who also seemingly knew what was to happen, and simply bowed his head and shut his eyes. While the son struggled beneath the ropes to get to his father, the man refused to look at his family, hoping that his death would be quick and that maybe they could be spared.

Swallowing, the youth pronounced his doom. "_Avada Kedavra!"_

A jet of green light, and the body of the man fell to the ground, unmistakably dead.

Mortimer patted the youth on the shoulder. "Well done." He looked at the two other trainees. "Kill them."

Both nodded, and Mortimer was relieved to see that the teenager and his mother both fell dead. The recruits were obviously stronger than he'd thought.

"What'd I miss?" Varmilke entered the room, looking around the entrance hall. He looked at his Death Eater comrade.

"Did they pass?"

"Of course."

"Good," Varmilke nodded. "Now there's only one left."

All of the men in the room tensed, the three trainees all visibly paling while Mortimer's heart began to pound in his chest. He tried to clear his throat, to swallow, but found he couldn't.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Varmilke looked directly at him, and Mortimer could feel the intensity of his gaze under the hood.

"The Dark Lord said everyone in the house. Everyone. No exceptions. He made that very clear."

With that, the burly Death Eater began ascending the stairs. The three recruits looked to Mortimer, who was indeed revolted under his mask. Nodding sharply, he unwillingly followed Varmilke, and the three recruits shuffled after him. As they came to the master bedroom at the top of the stairs, they found Varmilke standing over a bassinet, wand in hand. One of the trainees gave an audible sigh, thinking the pressure was off. A bad choice.

"Come here. All of you," Varmilke beckoned.

The three recruits shared a glance, then slowly followed Mortimer and stood round the cradle, where an infant barely two months old lay sleeping.

"You're all going to have the opportunity to end this infant's life quickly and quietly," Varmilke said carefully, looking at the Death Eaters trainees. "Otherwise, it'll be left to me and you'll have to watch me do it. And I'm not known for my mercy," he added with a nasty smirk.

"You first," he said, pointing at the peaky-looking young man.

The recruit grasped his wand, but only got as far as pointing it near the bassinet before he spun around and vomited copiously in the corner of the bedroom. Varmilke ignored him, looking at the formerly stoic recruit who stood pale before the baby.

The boy grasped his wand, pointed it toward the bassinet, but couldn't quiet manage to say the words, nor to mean them.

"Av-v-v-v-v-ada Ked-d-d-abra," he said shakily. The wand emitted a small green vapor that disappeared nearly immediately.

Varmilke turned his attention to the muttering recruit, who had fear and revulsion in his eyes. He too pulled his wand and aimed it at the bassinet, but he also couldn't get the words out. Mortimer, who stood silently throughout, was slowly building his rage feeling strong hatred for Varmilke, and hatred for the Dark Lord for sending them on this task. He didn't have it in him to kill babies, but he couldn't see Varmilke torture the poor infant either. Pushing aside the muttering recruit, he spat angrily:

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Varmilke looked at Mortimer with something close to approval.

"Morty! I didn't know ya had it in you."

He left the room, only briefly pausing to throw a Killing Curse at the sobbing recruit in the vomit-filled corner.

As the Death Eaters and the two successful recruits left the house, threw the Dark Mark into the sky, and Disapparated, the Magical Birth Registry in the Ministry made a sudden change to a July entry, the second such amendment it had made thus far:

**July 3, 1980 – September 4, 1980 ~ Damian Holmsfin (Pureblood)**

*~*-*~*-*~*-*~*

**September 9**

"Your best chance is the Fidelius Charm."

Dumbledore addressed the two shocked couples in his Hogwarts office. There had been quite a few close calls in the month that the Longbottoms and Potters had been hiding, and after the disturbing revelation of the deaths of all other July-born wizarding children and their families, Dumbledore had ended their period of hiding to discuss more thorough and complete forms of concealment.

"What exactly does the Fidelius Charm do, Albus?" Alice asked softly.

James looked to his wife, her eyes gleaming as they had at Hogwarts when she was excited about a particular topic. As Dumbledore explained in detail the nature of the charm, James couldn't help but marvel at his wife's great love of Charms that overrode her intense fear of the scourge of the wizarding world hunting down their infant son.

"It seems then, that you will need to approach someone you trust explicitly to keep your secret," Dumbledore concluded.

James and Frank shared glances, and James voiced the thought both men had.

"Why can't we be each other's Secret Keepers? Then we are both in hiding, under the charm, and the secret is assured to be safe."

Dumbledore looked at him patiently, but Lily broke in first. "Well, James, it would certainly work: the secret would be kept and our families would be safe. But no one would ever find us again. We'd be cut off from the wizarding world completely and irreversibly. How could anyone get word to us if the war ended and Voldemort was gone?"

James sighed, defeated. He, along with everyone else in the room, also understood the unsaid flipside to Lily's last point: _"How could anyone get word to us if, God forbid, Voldemort had won and taken over Britain?"_

"So the Secret Keeper has to be part of the Wizarding World," Frank stated, "someone we trust with our lives, but maybe not the most obvious choice for Voldemort to target."

"Everyone is a target," Alice reminded her husband. "Though he may place greater value on the deaths of some rather than others, all lives in Britain, Muggle, wizard, or magical creature, are in danger and could be victims to Voldemort or his evil followers."

Dumbledore smiled sadly at Alice. "An astute observation, and sentiments that many would not share in these dark times, but a reminder of the hope and the good we aim to preserve." Lily looked fondly at the blushing young witch, while Frank hugged his wife.

"I would offer myself as Secret Keeper for both of you," Dumbledore continued, ignoring the surprised faces before him, "but it is a family decision, and I am known to be a consistent thorn in the side of Tom Riddle."

"Not that I have any intention of being caught or killed in the near future," and here Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, "but you must decide for yourselves. I will excuse myself to restock my supply of lemon drops, as I have recently run out, and allow you time to deliberate and make your selections in the safety of this office."

Without further ado, Dumbledore swept from his office, humming lightly. Frank turned to Alice and they quietly discussed their options.

"Lemon drops?" James asked his wife, puzzled, but she simply glared at him.

"Not now," she grumbled. "I think we should use Remus."

"Remus?"

James hadn't even considered Remus, but then again, he had been thinking about Sirius again. Sirius was brave, loyal to a fault, highest-ranking dueler among the Aurors, personal knowledge of the arsenal of Dark spells Death Eaters could use against him, and second only to Mad-Eye Moody in terms of constant vigilance.

But Sirius was gone for the foreseeable future, something that annoyed and concerned James to no end. Sirius would have been the Secret Keeper in a heartbeat and died to protect James, Lily, and little Harry, but could James really demand he return? He had half a mind to do so, partially for the Fidelius Charm and more because he missed his best friend. But he knew Sirius wouldn't have gone unless it was truly important. Dumbledore himself had suggested that Sirius was off doing important work for the order. So James was on his own, and he had to make the best choice, the right choice for Secret Keeper.

James thought about Remus. The man was certainly talented and smart, with a cool head and grace under pressure. But when it came down to it, he needed to know if Remus would yield in the end. Could he be loyal to his death and defend the Potters at all costs? Yes, of course. Would he die as readily as Sirius would for his friends? Yes, he probably would. But in the end, would it matter? Voldemort would rip his mind apart and discover the truth. Only if Remus didn't have the Secret could he escape with his life. And then, in a stroke of genius, James had the answer.

"Peter."

"Peter!" Lily looked at James as though he'd finally lost the last of his sanity.

"You must be joking."

"Don't you see, Lil? We let it slip to a few people that we're using Remus, but really, the Secret Keeper is Peter!"

James was excited now, bursting with happiness at the cleverness of the idea.

"I don't know, James," Lily said skeptically, a slight frown on her face. "Peter isn't nearly as talented or brave as Remus."

"Think about it," James replied earnestly. "Remus is intelligent, cunning, but also aloof and secretive. Peter may not be as powerful or as smart, but he makes up for it in loyalty. Peter would never betray the Marauders: he would never betray his friends. Remus… well, sometimes I'm not sure if push comes to shove, Remus wouldn't give us up for greater rights for werewolves or some big human rights achievement."

"James! How could you?"

"I was joking! Sheesh, I though you knew me by now, Lily-flower." Lily let out a low growl, and James hurried to finish his thoughts.

"Remus thinks with his brain, like you do Lily. But Peter, he thinks with his heart. Remus can handle himself if the Death Eaters attack him, that's why we tell people we've used Remus. But Peter needs more help, and as the Secret Keeper, he'd get the best levels of protection. With everything hinting at Remus, Peter stays hidden and unnoticed. And Peter would die rather than betray us…we're all he has, Lil."

Lily was still unconvinced. She had always liked Remus, while Peter… she couldn't put her finger on it, but she'd never really got along with him too well. But James had a point about the misdirection, and she certainly knew the four Marauders had an unrivalled bond. She sighed, giving up her reservations.

"Alright, we use Peter and claim it's Remus. But only if they both agree and know the risks," she added sharply.

James beamed at his wife and kissed her on the head, which mollified her somewhat. Frank and Alice had finished their discussion and turned to the Potters.

"We're going to ask Barty Crouch."

"Barty?" James scratched his head and looked at Lily. She knew he felt that the Head of the Auror office wasn't necessarily the wisest decision, but Frank revered the man as a second father. Lily turned to Alice for more information

"Frank wants us to use Barty Crouch. I'd prefer to use my sister, but she's out of the country and there isn't enough time. Even though he's a high target on Voldemort's list, the Auror office is extremely well guarded at all times, and Barty always has two personal bodyguards with him. We'll ask him tomorrow at Frank's final Auror meeting."

"We're using Pettigrew, but saying it's Remus," James confided. Frank nodded approvingly.

"Well, this may be the last time we see each other for awhile…"

Frank and James shook hands heartily, while Lily and Alice embraced, neither woman shedding tears but both with red eyes and somber faces.

Neither family knew just how accurate Frank's words would be…

*~*-*~*-*~*-*~*

_For neither can live while the other survives..._

**October 31**

Albus Dumbledore sat in the Hogwarts Headmasters office, regarding two photos of wizard families, deep in thought. Albus knew he'd seen ultimate evil, but Voldemort's culling of newborn witches and wizards convinced Albus that his foe was truly no longer human, with such blatant disregard for life. Not one child was spared in the genocidal Death Eater killings, whether Pureblood, half-blood, or Muggle-born: the infants and their entire families had been brutally massacred.

He looked down at the photos in his hands, the waving James and Lily Potter, and Frank, Alice, and Augusta Longbottom. Both Lily and Alice had bundles in their arms, smiling serenely and proudly into the camera. There lay the last surviving wizards born in July, and one was the potential future savior of the wizarding world.

Albus felt every bit his eighty-five years, as he looked at the pictures. He had no idea which child was the child of the prophecy, which would be the weapon to finally destroy that horror and perversion of a man. And he felt he no longer knew how Tom Riddle thought: the boy he had observed and felt he keenly knew had been replaced by a monstrosity, with whom anything was possible.

Fawkes came to land on Dumbledore's shoulder, musically humming softly. Albus stroked the brilliant bird's plumage, drawing strength from its presence.

"Albus!"

The doe Patronus of Severus Snape had appeared in his office, licking its neck nervously.

"Yes, Severus?"

"He is moving - tonight! Now!"

Dumbledore stood up swiftly. "Were the locations betrayed by the Secret Keepers?"

The doe seemed to glare at him. "You didn't tell me who they were."

"For your own protection, my boy."

"But I would have been the one person to tell you if they were Death Eaters!"

Albus felt his ears ringing. Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch were Death Eaters? He nearly refused to believe it.

The doe had focused on Dumbledore now, almost cognizant of his train of thought.

"Albus you fool. Still believing the best of everyone. Wormtail, Lucius, and Bellatrix are on their way to the Potters. He foolishly babbled their location out loud: the Potters are in the cottage at the end of the row in Godric's Hollow."

"I will go to them immediately," Albus declared. Fawkes let out a musical trill, and Dumbledore nodded at his familiar.

"Thank you for alerting me so swiftly, Severus."

The doe Patronus glared back at the aged wizard.

"If she dies, I will kill you myself."

"I'll do everything in my power to save the Potters," he said simply. "But what of the Longbottoms?"

The doe cast its eyes downward. "The Dark Lord was told the location by Crouch. No one else. It appears he is going to... confront the Longbottoms alone."

Albus's breath caught. He knew that the turning point had been reached, that Voldemort had singled out Neville as the child most likely to be dangerous to him. Oddly, it was not what Albus had expected, but he shook that thought off with dread, remembering that Voldemort was no longer the boy and young man he had known.

"Merlin help them," he sighed shaking his head and with a flash of phoenix fire, was gone from Hogwarts.


	3. The Boy Who Survived

Far from the prying eyes of magical gossipmongers, in a small, quiet village on Norway's western coast, the Boy-Who-Lived was weeding a vegetable garden. In the clear, bright days of Norway's short but seemingly endless summers, Neville Longbottom, known as Niels Lindhal, was busy tending the earth, his hands immersed in soil. He'd sing green lullabies as he watered the tomatoes, plucked the weeds from in between the pea shoots, and subtly used magic to attract ladybugs to the garden.

The Norwegian Ministry of Magic was aware of his presence, and indeed status in this little village. But as Norway was one of the last true wildernesses for magical beings, with a long history of wizards, giants and the like that had now been utterly forgotten by a secular Muggle society, the country was a refuge for The-Boy-Who-Lived. His grandmother, Augusta Longbottom lived with him as Ainse Lindhal, and both were residents of his aunt's farm, which also housed his Aunt Clare Rasmussen and cousins Oscar and Britta.

Niels knew that his parents were British, but Norway was the only home he'd ever known. And certainly in Niels' opinion, there was no better place on Earth to be a wizarding child than Norway. The Norwegian Ministry of Magic was relatively open about underage magic: as long as underage magic was done under the supervision of an adult and away from Muggle eyes, there was no problem with exploring skills. Wands were not issued until the eleventh birthday, but flying on toy broomsticks, playing with magical creatures, and accidental or experimental magic went unpunished.

And Norway was a great haven for magical creatures, with rare breeds of magical horses, cattle, and odd creatures living in Niels' province. Not to mention the clans of giants and Norwegian Ridgebacks inhabiting the mountains of Norway. Oscar and Niels often pretended to be magical zoologists in their younger years, tracking down new species in the valley, getting into various scrapes with a lethifold or a hinkypunk en route, which their wits and bravery only barely allowed for a narrow escape. Britta would protest when they kept her from the games.

"But Mama says lethifolds aren't even in Norway! You can't even play right!"

"Britta, in our world, anything can happen," Niels patiently explained. "We can have lethifolds and hurlyburlies and Mangorian Tigers and grizzly bears and centaurs if we want to."

The little girl was rarely pacified, until the boys agreed to be brave Viking warriors rescuing the fair maiden Britta who was kept under lock and key by a horrible troll and guarded by crazed dragon.

Oscar was a year older than Neville and Britta four years younger than her brother. Sibling resemblance was minimal: Oscar was far taller than Neville, with more sculpted features and much more dramatic coloring of bright blond hair, piercing blue eyes and fair skin…a dead ringer for his deceased father, Johannes Rasmussen. Britta meanwhile had a softer, round face like Niels, Aunt Clare and his mum Alice. "The face of an angel hiding a monster of a temper," Aunt Clare joked. She shared her brother's intense eyes, though a bit more sapphire in color than cerulean, and had darker, dirty-blond hair like Neville.

Neville sighed in the vegetable garden. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth, he moved outside the collections of plants to sit on the cool grass. Neville himself this year had grown taller, though not nearly enough to rival his cousin for height. He had lost quite a bit of his childhood chubbiness doing all of Oscar's chores as well as his own, though his face remained round. He had worked extra hard round the house, helping Aunt Clare with any and every possible task, desperate to forget that Oscar was off at school while he was stuck at home.

For Neville was dying to learn magic. Oscar had been accepted at the prestigious Valhalla Lyceum for the Magical Arts, located somewhere in Sweden; Visby, he could remember from Oscar's letter, but Neville wasn't exactly sure what part of the country it was. The house had been quiet without him. Aunt Clare missed her oldest child, but was far too busy with work and running the household to pine. Britta had also been sad, but Niels was still home for her to pester and play with. It was Neville who missed Oscar most acutely. After months of loneliness, winter holidays arrived, and Oscar was back, regaling him and Britta with tales from school.

"And the fast-ferry, the _Valkyrie_, is filled not just with students, but all kinds of magical creatures! My pal Tapani reckons he saw a hag on the way over!"

"Are they all students?" Niels asked excitedly.

"Not all of them," and Oscar's face reflected brief disappointment, before becoming animated again.

"Most are headed to Eadgilstad: it's a town only for magical beings, and it's just outside the walls of Valhalla. And guess who founded Eadgilstad, Niels? Bodulfr!"

Little Britta gasped while Neville repeated the name with awe. Bodulfr was a legendary werewolf hero in magical Scandinavia, though he had other names in other countries. Muggles had even got wind of the man's greatness, though had completely failed to tell true stories about him, and even bungled his name into Beowulf.

"Eadgilstad has a large community of werewolves, and there are a few at school too. But there are a bunch of vampire students, and a large number of haldi. They're really amazing!"

"What are haldi?" Neville looked at his cousin, perplexed.

"Hm, well, they're kind of magic people that can also talk to animals and magical creatures and nature spirits. And there are nine different tribes of haldi, and each one has an animal spirit symbol, I think, and they can turn into that animal! We're learning about their origins, and of all magic people in History of Magic."

Britta's eyes were shining. "Oh but Oscar, is Valhalla beautiful? Is it like the wonderful places in the stories with the brave maidens and princesses?"

Oscar grinned. "It's the most amazing place I've ever been."

Niels had anxiously awaited the six months to June when Oscar returned to Norway from school. He watched his aunt carefully, asking questions about household spells. He tended the garden dutifully, and saved his pocket money to buy more rare magical herbs in Trondheim, hoping he'd learn more about their properties before he started Herbology. He read late into the night, wearing his eyes out and squinting at small print beneath the covers with his torch. _Fantastic Flora: 10,000 Magical Plants, Herbs, and Trees_, _Great Beasts of Scandinavia_, _The Norse Legacy: Ancient Magic of the Vikings_ were stacked on his beside table, dog-eared and worn with repeated reading.

Niels was greatly looking forward to Valhalla, and he could tell Aunt Clare was equally excited for it. But he could tell that Grandmother Lindhal was less than pleased from her even more than usual severe expression anytime Valhalla was mentioned in the house. He supposed there must have been some school in Britain that his father attended, and she would want him to go there, he thought with a frown.

Thinking about his parents was difficult. Since he had never known them, Neville never had occasion to miss them. He certainly _wished _he had his parents, and had mixed emotions about their willingness to die for him, but Niels had never wanted for love or attention.

As Niels Lindhal, he lived a quiet life under the caring, kind eyes of his dear aunt. He'd come to love her as his own mother, and from her amazing stories he knew that his deceased parent, Alice, had been extremely close to her sister, sharing a patient, kind temperament that was flecked with enduring loyalty and a strong commitment to justice. His aunt was quite fair when it came to both lavishing praise and administering discipline for all of the children. Oscar was his best friend, and though the two were technically cousins, being raised together made their connection brotherly more than anything. Little Britta, though she annoyed Niels and Oscar most of the time was still dear in their hearts as all little sisters are. Neville had a family that loved him dearly, and he loved in return, and despite not having his parents

Grandmother, on the other hand, was removed from the happy family nucleus, preferring to scowl and frown in the corner, especially at him. She'd made a few pointed comments to Neville about his lack of talent, when he'd fallen off the foal pony at the zoo, when Oscar had accidentally cursed him to have elephant ears. She'd occasionally whisper to herself, when she thought no one could hear her, about the end of the Longbottom line with her "foolish grandson".

As he finished his gardening for the day, he couldn't help but think brightly of the future, out from Grandmother's disapproving glare, to learn magic with Oscar.

"My last summer before Valhalla," he said softly. He smiled. He liked how it sounded when he said it aloud.

July 30th was Neville's birthday, and as Niels sat on the ground, looking out over the surrounding green hillside, he himself wished he'd been born a different day. The long summers of the Midnight Sun began to wane, giving way to darkness and foreshadowing the icy thrall of winter. He half suspected that his cousins' toned-downed celebrations earlier in the year were done to imitate his own. For Grandmother Longbottom, Neville's birth was directly responsible for her son's death. Aunt Clare always kept the children happy and in celebratory moods with presents and sweets, and sometimes trips to fish or sail along the fjords, but things were often subdued.

"Hey, Niels!"

Oscar walked up the hill toward his cousin, a box clutched in his hands.

"What is that, Oscar?"

"It's your present! I made it at school- well, I made part of it. And Mama helped me finish it and er- put it all together, when I got back."

Neville's eyes widened brightly. Oscar had made him a present? He was getting his first magical gift then! Aunt Clare had encouraged always encouraged her family to make their own gifts. As children, this meant that Oscar, Niels, and Britta made do with Muggle supplies to create gifts. But Oscar had now begun attending Valhalla, and in one year, he could use his magical skills to create something for his cousin's birthday, something that awed Neville.

"You made it at Valhalla?" Neville's hands shook as he grasped the box, quivering with excitement. "Can I open it?"

"Wait for me!"

The two boys glanced backward to find Britta scurrying up the hill, waving her arms wildly. Oscar's younger sister, Britta too longed to see magic, especially as she herself was late to show signs of magical aptitude.

"Hurry up already," Oscar hollered, annoyed that his sister was delaying the unveiling of his present.

"I'm comin, I'm comin," she squawked through her heavy breathing, now running as fast as her little legs could carry her.

The small girl plopped on the grass beside Niels, "Open it, Nev," Oscar commanded, eager to see his cousin's reaction.

With baited breath, Neville and Oscar were silent, lending a stillness to Neville's patient opening of the box, punctuated only by the exhausted panting of Britta.

"It's...wow..."

In his hands, Neville held a silver pocket watch, a Muggle device for telling the time, but one that plenty of wizards used as well. (In fact, the first watches in Germany were rumored to have been a collaborative project between a Muggle and wizard both intrigued by time and space as perceived in the two worlds.) It had two sets of hands and faces, one revolving around numbers, and one with a miniature map of the galaxy. And in the lid, a small family portrait, Neville could just make out his distinctive diamond shaped scar on a figure to be him.

"That's not even all it does," Oscar said. He tapped the galaxy face twice with his wand.

"_" Britta said solemnly. She was amazed at the display of magic, but where Neville was excited looking at the lifelike projection of the stars around them, she was awed into a quiet love of the object.

Oscar tapped the face twice again and the stars disappeared. "I put the charms on the watch! And It does the same thing with the family portrait. Here, you try, Niels."

Neville was startled, and nearly alarmed. "Me? But-but I'm not in school yet."

Oscar shrugged. "Just use my wand and tap twice."

"But I'm not supposed to do magic!"

"Well, ok then," Oscar sighed, and looked at his cousin. "But don't you want to?"

In the back of his mind, a little voice popped up, _Well, Neville, you do want to, don't you? She's wrong about you, you know. You can be a wizard, a great wizard, but you've got to start now. _

Neville reached out and grabbed Oscar's wand, and tapped softly on the mini portrait in his wand. Immediately, the portrait was floating before the three, framed in ebony wood. Neville could tell Oscar had painted it himself: his artistic cousin had been an expert with Muggle colored pencils and watercolors. Britta's room still had some of his amateur designs of castles and fairies and grindylows and mermaids, while one of Neville's favorite possessions was his collection of wizarding tales retold, written and charmed by Aunt Clare, with beautiful illustrations by Oscar.

But here, his cousin's artistic talents had transformed with the use of magical art supplies, or so Neville guessed. Oscar had made a truly wonderful portrait of the two families, the Longbottoms/Lindhals and the Rasmussens. Neville's eyes wandered over the faces of his waving parents: his father smiling brightly, his mother serenely. Even Grandmother Longbottom was captured in a mostly happy state, her habitual frown replaced with a stern look of pride and rank. Britta and Oscar were happily waving and making faces to Neville's left in the painting, with their parents Aunt Clare and Uncle Johannes.

Tears in his eyes, Neville tapped twice again on the watch, and the portrait was back in miniature form opposite the clock face. He turned to Britta and Oscar, who were also a bit tearful.

"Thanks," he whispered, clutching the watch in his fist.


	4. The Very Unmerry Birthday

**July 30**

That night, the Rasmussen and Lindhal families gathered round the dining room table for Neville's eleventh birthday. In keeping with the subdued tradition, it was a simple dinner and quick exchange of gifts, but Niels and his cousins always had an enjoyable time at their small celebrations.

As Aunt Clare and Oscar cleared the cake plates from the table, Niels thumbed his pocket watch and smiled to himself. He was pleased to be eleven. His name backwards was Elliven, very close to eleven, he thought. And eleven was a magical age for wizards and witches: they could go to school, and learn amazing things. He had waited patiently – and impatiently – for this day to come, and now he was finally eleven, at the all important age where he could become a true wizard.

Returning from the kitchen, Oscar shot his cousin a stealthy smile. Neville had no time to inquire, as his aunt approached him.

"I'm going to give you your present now, Niels. But it must be a surprise!"

Neville looked up at her confused, but in an instant, she had waved her wand, and everything was black and quiet. He felt a thrill of anticipation and excitement, as something small tread on his trainers. Neville reached out and felt something… furry?

Aunt Clare undid the charm, and Niels was shocked to see a puppy before him. Gazing up with beautiful brown eyes, the puppy mischeviously bounded into Neville's lap, sniffing his hands and then contentedly settling himself on his wizard.

"Ooh so pretty!"

Britta ran to pet the puppy in Neville's hands, while Oscar observed the dog from afar: he'd never been a large fan of dogs. Neville simply looked at his aunt, with expressively grateful eyes.

"He's a Finnish Lapphund," Aunt Clare explained. "Very loyal dogs, and very hearty: he'll want to play all the time when he gets older. Muggles and wizarding kind alike treasure the breed. This one comes from a magical litter: his father, Canute, was the longtime companion of Stefan Numers."

"Really?" Oscar broke in excitedly. "But Mama, how do you know Stefan Numers?"

Aunt Clare chuckled. "You didn't know that Stefan was an old school friend of your father? Rivals on the Quidditch field too, as I recall. Your father nearly beat him for best player in their final year."

Oscar's mouth made a big O: his dad had been friends with his Quidditch hero, and he hadn't known.

"Magical Finnish Lapphunds are extremely intelligent, so he'll be well trained and won't get in to too much mischief. Stefan's sons and daughters named the puppies: his name is Vali. But you are welcome to change it, Niels, after all it's your dog."

"No," the small boy's voice came out in a whisper, still gazing down happily at his puppy. He looked up at his aunt. "Vali is a nice name."

Oscar snorted. "Magni would be better."

"Or Princess Freya!" Britta broke in, still petting little Vali.

"You can't name a boy dog Princess Freya," her brother replied scathingly.

"Can so!"

"Can not!"

"Can so!"

"Can not!"

"Children!" Oscar stuck his tongue out at Britta, but hushed as his mother clapped her hands and looked at them expectantly. "It's Niels's familiar: he will keep or change the name as he likes."

Neville looked up again. "My-my familiar?"

Aunt Clare smiled kindly at him. "You'll be headed to Valhalla this fall, but I decided we could get your animal companion in advance as a birthday gift."

Oscar stopped glaring at his sister and glanced at Neville, smiling. "I bet you'll have a letter from Valhalla tomorrow morning!"

The three Rasmussens all looked at Neville, who beamed at the news. He was a wizard, he would go to Valhalla with Oscar, Vali, and Madoc, Oscar's owl, and he was finally "elliven". Nothing could go wrong, nothing except…

"Neville will not be attending Valhalla. He shall attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and all the members of the Longbottom family before him did."

Grandmother Longbottom's voice broke out. She'd been watching Neville's birthday proceedings much as she always had, silently and sternly, and the family had paid little attention to her. Now, the wizened witch in the rocking chair had cast a shadow on the celebrations, and no one knew quite how to begin.

"Augusta," Clare began slowly, but Neville cut her off.

"What do you mean, Grandmother? I'm a wizard, right? So why can't I go Valhalla?"

"You are of course a wizard, but a wizard of your status and caliber may only attend the finest wizarding school in Europe, which is Hogwarts."

"No it isn't," his cousin replied promptly.

"Oscar!" Clare exclaimed, frowning at her son, but the young boy was not deterred.

"Well, it isn't Mama. Everyone knows that the two top schools are Durmstrang Institute and Valhalla. We take the best magical beings from five countries, and Durmstrang has two campuses to accommodate the best wizards and witches from a whole bunch of countries. Then Beauxbatons, then Galileo, and _then_ Hogwarts."

The whole family was quiet as Oscar delivered his verdict. Seeing the frown on his mother's face and the look of silent rage on Grandmother Longbottom's, he hastily backtracked a bit.

"Well, that's what I heard." He stuck his chin out defiantly. "Anyway, Niels can't go there: they didn't even send him a letter! And I know they send them early, because I got one last year."

"Oh!" Neville turned to face his grandmother, a pleading look on his face. "So I won't be going after all I guess. They don't seem to want me, right Grandmother?"

The old matriarch looked sternly at Oscar, and then at her grandson. Terrifyingly for Niels, the woman smiled at him in a not particularly a nice manner.

"Unfortunately for the both of you, he has _already received_ a Hogwarts letter. On July first, an owl appeared at the home, addressed to the Longbottom / Lindhal family. Naturally, as the head of that family I opened the letter, and promptly sent back Neville's acceptance. There's no question of him attending Valhalla now. I suspect he won't even _receive _a letter, since his name will be magically removed from the list of children as he is already enrolled in another school."

Silence blanketed the cozy Rasmussen living room. For a fairly warm summer's night, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees from sheer anger, hurt and hostility.

"Alright, off to bed!" Aunt Clare broke the silence, clapping her hands. "Oscar, Niels, Britta, I expect that all three of you will have your faces washed, teeth brushed, and be snug in blankets by the time I check on you. Grandmother Longbottom and I are going to have a little discussion first."

Oscar leapt up immediately, pulling his still shocked sister along with him up the stairs. Neville stood slowly, the puppy Vali in his arms.

"Don't worry, Niels. I'll transfigure a basket for him when I come to say goodnight," Clare said kindly to her nephew. Niels smiled sadly at her, then glanced at his grandmother before making his way to the stairs.

"Neville?" The boy froze on the second step, hearing the sharp call of his grandmother.

"Happy birthday dear."

**July 31**

After tucking in the boys and Britta, Clare Rasmussen made her way down the stairs to confront the Longbottom matriarch. Augusta had remained in her chair, a small smile playing about her mouth revealing her great pleasure at disrupting the night's events. Clare glared at the woman.

"How could you, Augusta? On his birthday? The happiness of your grandson means that little to you?"

Augusta gave Clare a sharp look.

"His happiness is inconsequential. Becoming a wizard worthy of carrying the Longbottom name is the only priority, and I won't have him squandering his status at some second tier school like Valhalla-"

"This has _nothing _to do with Valhalla, with his education," Clare broke in angrily. "This, like everything else we've disagreed about over the years, is all about _you._"

Augusta drew herself up proudly and cast a critical eye at Clare.

"I have tolerated the Longbottom exile in Norway. I left behind all of my closest and longest friends, lost a great deal of status in society as matriarch of the distinguished and pureblood Longbottom family, not to mention abandoned a seat on the Wizengamont, and," and her the old woman's voice wavered just a bit from the cold steel inflection, "I lost my son."

"And I lost my sister," Clare replied.

"When Dumbledore suggested blood wards, I graciously-"

"Reluctantly," Clare interrupted.

"- Agreed to share Longbottom Manor with you," Augusta continued speaking as though she hadn't heard. "But you outright refused, forcing me to uproot my life and lineage to bow down to your demands and live in this horrible country."

Clare kept control of her voice, but her emotions were swirling and she subconsciously fingered her wand.

"And I had good reason for wanting to raise Neville out of Britain. We didn't know if Voldemort had really gone," Clare ignored Augusta's flinch at the name, "what his followers might try next… Death Eaters claiming bewitchment, Imperius… Neville would have been an easy target in England."

"Dumbledore-"

"Dumbledore threatened to place Neville in a Muggle home if I would not agree to move to England," Clare hissed at Augusta, who was shocked into silence. "Oh yes, the patron of the Light was not willing to let his Chosen One have a solid, stable childhood if it meant he was far from his control and influence. He claimed it would be better if Neville could be raised far from the pressures of fame and expectation. When I argued that Norway would provide just that, he resorted to threats. Oh with twinkles in his eyes and lemon drops, but threats to take my nephew all the same."

"But…" Augusta was clearly lost, though she did her best to remain composed. "How? How did we end up here?"

Clare's anger frothed just under the surface. "Johannes, from that 'second rate school' Valhalla, needed to only say a few words to his contacts in the Norwiegan Ministry. Norway, as you'll recall, was next for Voldemort in his eventual expansion plans, that much we learned early on in the war. The government had a vested interest then, in keeping The Boy Who Lived safe from everyone. I secured Frank and Alice's will, and the Norweigan Ministry leaned on the British Ministry until approval was granted to spirit you two out of the country."

"And we've kept him safe, from everything and everyone these past eleven years, and now you want to throw him to the wolves?" Clare's voice jumped an octave, her tone critical and stern. "You want to put him in the path of Albus Dumbledore, of all people? Not to mention the remnants of Voldemort's followers, of course."

"Neville must go to Hogwarts! He must cement his position as the heir to the Longbottom name, and establish himself in wizarding society. You-Know-Who is gone," though in her mind, Augusta was not entirely sure, "and Dumbledore will have no cause to bother him now. And I shall take up residence in Longbottom Manor, and be a short apparition away to assisting my grandson."

Clare regarded Augusta severely. "Neville could go to Valhala, where Oscar would be there to protect him, where the children would not gawk and stare at him, and where wizards and politicians would not jostle to use him as a tool or figure for self-aggrandizement. In spite of all his parents suffered, and the history of the magical world in Britain, you want him to attend Hogwarts?"

Augusta drew herself up imperiously. "My grandson will go to Hogwarts. And as I am his primary magical guardian and the family elder of the Longbottoms, my decision is binding, and it is final."

"Fine. But Neville will return to Norway every summer, to renew the wards and strengthen my sister's sacrifice. And if one thing should happen to him at Hogwarts – one thing – I will contest your primary guardianship, bring him home, and enroll him at Valhalla. And I have Norweigan Ministry contacts and eleven years of evidence to make that happen."

Augusta pursed her lips, then smiled painfully. "Then we understand each other perfectly."


	5. The Wand that Chose The Wizard

_**AN: This chapter took a long time to edit! Again, I own nothing you recognize. The dökkálf as they appear, Baltasar, and the Rasmussens are original.**_

**August 6**

It had been a relatively peaceful few days in the house after Neville's contentious eleventh birthday. Clare and Augusta had reached a tentative accord, but the little house was quieter than it had ever been. Neville thought even Britta was quieter, no longer shrieking and crying to play with the boys all the time. The three children sensed the turning tide and tension in the house, even if they didn't quite know what it meant.

After much deliberation and debate, it was decided that Elroy Ollivander would be invited to the Rasmussen home. While Clare had successfully made the case that it was unnecessary to shop in Diagon Alley, since all of his spellbooks and things could be purchased via owl order and Diagon Alley would be mobbed with students and parents, Augusta had drawn the line at a wand. Neville would only be wielding an Ollivander's wand, the finest wands in the wizarding world according to her. Oscar had begun to open his mouth after that pronouncement, but a quick stamp on the foot by his dear mother made him hastily cover it up with a cough.

Grandmother Longbottom wrote Dumbledore to persuade Ollivander to make the journey to the Rasmussen home in Norway. Dumbledore's reply, received last night, said to expect Ollivander late morning of the sixth.

Neville still wasn't happy to be forced to attend Hogwarts. He couldn't quite bring himself to look at his cousin Oscar, feeling a small degree of shame and sadness that he would not accompany his dear playmate to Valhalla. But this morning, the wandmaker Mr. Ollivander was coming to their home, and bringing the finest wands in Britain for Neville to choose from.

A wand… if anything could make The-Boy-Who-Lived feel better, it would be to have a wand of his very own.

"Niels!" The ringing voice of his aunt brought him back to reality, to his untouched breakfast at the kitchen table.

"Goodness, Niels you haven't eaten anything," Clare scolded while clearing Britta's dishes. She was dressed in her official Ministry robes, a solemn, deep indigo, with the coat of arms of Norway on the left breast, the Norwegian Lion; a golden beast crowned and axe wielding.

"Where's Oscar?" Neville asked through a bite of his geitost and rye.

"He already went to town, finishing his summer project for Art and Architecture. He'll return by lunch. Britta is coming with me to the Ministry this morning."

"So who will stay with me to meet Mr. Ollivander?"

Clare gave him a sympathetic look. "Your grandmother wishes to be present during the visit."

Neville gulped. That was the last thing he wanted.

Aunt Clare kissed him on the forehead and strode from the room. He absentmindedly rubbed her kiss, which was just to the right of his scar. He was eleven and while he felt as though he didn't need to be babied, he did like Aunt Clare's displays of affection.

"Finish your breakfast boy, clear those plates, and then follow me into the living room please. Mr. Ollivander will be arriving from Hogwarts shortly by Portkey."

Grandmother Longbottom appeared in the doorway, looking at her grandson sternly. Neville saw that she had some of her nicer robes on, a deep crimson with the Longbottom crest emblazoned on the right chest. He nervously hid the lower sleeve of his own robes, with a slight grass stain still apparent, and rushed to carry out her commands.

The two remaining Longbottoms stood silently in the living room, Augusta stoically, Neville with some trepidation, until suddenly a wizened man spiraled into existence from nowhere.

The wandmaker appeared in the living room, holding on to a large brown trunk. He did not smile, but looked closely at his welcoming party.

"Ah, yes of course. Neville Longbottom."

Neville took a step closer toward the odd little salesman, and gave a slight bow, as his grandmother had instructed him to do with wizards and witches of great stature. Neville felt ridiculous bowing, but the old matriarch was watching his every movement like a hawk, ready to swoop down on him at the slightest opportunity.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ollivander."

The old man chuckled, and looked at Neville closely.

"You're not quite what I expected, young man, but you do resemble your mother. Alice Taggerly, nine and three-quarters inches, birch and unicorn hair, pliant. In short, the perfect wand for an aspiring Herbologist, and useful for charms."

Neville wasn't entirely sure how long nine and three-quarters inches were: he knew the silly Americans and Brits used a different measuring system, but since he was grateful for the recollection about his mother, he kept quiet and didn't ask.

"Your father meanwhile," and here, the old man gave a dignified nod to Grandmother Longbottom, who dipped her head in response.

"Your father favored a rowan and Welsh Green dragon heartstring wand, twelve inches, steadfast, excellent for dueling. Well, I say he favored it; it's the wand that chooses the wizard, of course. Now then, which is your wand arm?"

After Neville held up his left arm, Ollivander flicked his own, and tape measures flitted about, examining the circumference of Neville's skull and area round his ankles, things he didn't quite think were necessary.

"Try this: Ash, phoenix feather, eleven and three quarters inches, a bit whippy."

Ollivander handed the wand to Neville, but no sooner had he started a basic wand motion than Ollivander had snatched it back.

"Nothing, hmm? Perhaps this one, yes, spruce, unicorn hair, twelve and a half inches, forceful."

And so it went on, for the better part of a half an hour: Neville in arrested motion, with wands rotating in and out of his left hand, and Ollivander making odd comments and searching for different choices. Augusta looked on it all with equanimity, but Neville felt worse and worse the longer it went on. He _was _a wizard, right? So why would a wand not choose him?

At last there was only one wand left. Ollivander faced the young boy, who seemed shaken by the process.

"Well now, Mr. Longbottom. It certainly cannot hurt to try. Beech, dragon heartstring, nine and three quarters inches, rigid."

Neville grasped the wand, and much to his surprise Ollivander did not pluck it out his hand before he went through with the final wand motion. Instead, the old man smiled sadly at the boy. Neville wasn't quite sure why, until he too just knew this was not his wand either: there had been no reaction. The wandmaker had been kind, wanted the boy to have a full wave with at least one of the wands. With a sinking, heavy heart, Neville passed the wand back to Ollivander under the weight of Grandmother Longbottom's disappointed gaze.

"How very curious, curious," Ollivander muttered to himself as he placed the final wand back into the trunk, and closed it with a snap of the lock.

"What's curious, Elroy?" Augusta questioned the wizard sharply.

Fiddling for a moment with the latch and then shrinking the trunk with flick of his wand, Ollivander sighed and turned to face the two Longbottoms.

"There was a wand I had made years ago, that sat in my shop for decades…I thought it would be sure to claim him…" he trailed off, and then fixed his eyes on Neville.

"But it claimed another first-year Hogwarts pupil only two days ago."

He shuffled towards the boy, and touched his shoulder slightly, the calm eyes of Ollivander flicking from Neville's eyes to his scar.

"I had expected great things from you, Mr. Longbottom. I am sorry."

The wandmaker stepped back and touched the gold phoenix brooch on the lapel of his robe, and vanished with the tug of the Portkey.

**August 7**

Neville sat in his bed, a glum expression fixed on his face. He sighed as he looked at his new wizarding possessions scattered across his room: Vali sprawled at the end of his blanket, the bundle of black robes in the corner, the precariously tilting stack of schoolbooks on the floor beside his night-table, the set of new quills and parchment for essays lying on his desk. Yet what good was it all, if he didn't even have a wand, for Merlin's sake!

He'd tried to distract himself reading a few of his new books, flipping diligently through _The Standard Book of Spells _and becoming enthralled by his Herbology text. But he couldn't get Mr. Ollivander's pity and his grandmother's cold face out of his mind. With only five hours of darkness, Neville was unable to find comfort in sleep, and had been up stewing for hours.

"Niels?" His aunt knocked softly on the door, and peeked into Neville's room. "I'm taking Oscar to Baldrmarket for his school supplies, and I'd like it if you came along."

Neville colored slightly, doubly saddened and frustrated at the thought of Oscar shopping for Valhalla, the place he'd always dreamed of attending, while he wasn't even wizard enough to acquire a wand! Aunt Clare sensed Neville's wave of emotion, and quickly came to sit beside him on the bed.

"Your grandmother has already agreed to watch Britta: I told her that I might need you to assist with holding bags to make shopping more efficient."

She paused and looked at Neville's crestfallen face.

"What I didn't tell her is that you'll be making a stop of your own, to get a wand."

Instantly, Neville's face lit up with joy, though it quickly subsided to fear.

"But- but Aunt Clare, all the wands rejected me that Mr. Ollivander had! So how can I get a wand?"

Aunt Clare looked at him kindly. "You know, when I went shopping for my wand, none of the Ollivander's wands chose me either."

Neville caught his breath, not daring to believe it. He knew his aunt had a wand, but to think she had gone through the same thing…

"Really?"

"Really. And I was so disappointed, I started to cry right in the middle of shop. I thought I wasn't magical enough to get a wand, and that I wouldn't get to go to Spoorfalds. That's the all-witches academy that I attended instead of Hogwarts, a small school on an island off the coast of Wales."

"You didn't go to Hogwarts with my mother?" Neville was curious.

Clare smiled slightly. "I was five years older than Alice, and my parents were more protective of me. I was accepted, but my parents preferred I attend a school for witches only. Spoorfalds had the best reputation then, so that's where I was sent. Of course Alice reasoned Mum and Dad down until they agreed to send her to Hogwarts."

"And you didn't mind? Being sent somewhere you didn't know anything about, that you didn't want to go to?"

Neville hung on his aunt's explanation, amazed at the similarities between their situations.

"Well at first I did. Especially when I didn't get a wand at Ollivander's. But my father took me to Llewellyn's in York, and my wand finally chose me there. And when I got to Spoorfalds, I made great friends and enjoyed my classes the first six years, and then Johannes arrived for a year of research with the Runes professor."

Clare's eyes had misted and she had a faraway look, and Neville wasn't sure quite what to say.

"So…where will I go for a wand?"

The question snapped Aunt Clare to attention, as she shook her head and smiled, clearing the memories.

"You are going to Baltasar's in Baldrmarket. He's quite good, Oscar and your Uncle Johannes both got wands from him."

Neville opened his mouth to ask another question, but Aunt Clare cut him off and stood up.

"You've got half an hour to wash your face, get dressed, and put breakfast in your stomach. Now get to it!"

As soon as she had left, Neville was up and running to the bathroom, washing his face with record speed and thrashing about to get out of his pajamas quickly. He was going to get a wand, he could still be a wizard, and his aunt had given him some small hope that he could find happiness at Hogwarts after all.

**Baldrmarket, Trondheim**

Clare and Oscar Rasmussen exited the Floo gracefully, while Neville clambered out, smoothing his hair over his telltale scar. In the general reception of Orkwund Bank in Baldrmarket of Trondheim, Neville couldn't help marveling at the bustling activity. Wizards and witches were swarming about in cloaks, robes, and Muggle attire, and dökkálfar were swiftly processing the queues for payment of school fees and withdrawals. The beautiful ivory interiors and vaulted ceilings caught Neville's eye every time he entered Orkwund.

"Oscar, will you be fine getting money for your school things from our vault if I give you the key? Neville and I need to get money from his vault."

The second-year Valhalla student stood straight and proud. "Of course, Mama, I'll be fine."

Clare took the vault key from around her neck, and handed it to Oscar. The tall boy strode off with a nod at Neville. Clare took off in the opposite direction, Neville scurrying behind her trying to keep up. They were headed to the rear of Orkwund, where the private offices were. At a familiar door, Clare stopped abruptly and made a small nod while curving her left hand into C-shape and affixed her hand to her chest.

"_En lysende stjerne følger den sanne alver, overlevende fra skjebnen." _

Neville hastily followed suit with the sign as Clare spoke clearly to the dökkálf standing in the small office. It was a statement that recognized the dark elves as the oldest magical beings in Norway, their ancestors surviving the great war between the first wizards, giants, and other magical beings and creatures in the Nordic Golden Age of Magic. Elves had chosen sides in the war, and followed either Freyr or Surtr, the two half-giant wizards that cultivated alliances with the alfar. Though he emerged victorious in the final duel, Surtr went mad from Freyr's attacks, and invoked the power of the volcano, unleashing flames across the battlefield and consuming most of the combatants. The elves that had flocked to his side were protected from the flames, but their fellow alfar fighting for Freyr were wiped out along with most everything else. Norway for hundreds of years lacked any prominent numbers of witches and wizards, as a result of the devastation.

Like all dökkálfar, the elf was thin, tall and with dark skin, so blue it was black, or black it was blue: skin colored like squid-ink, Oscar the artist had always said. Paired with incandescent silver-gray hair, the dark elves of Norway had looks to make an impression. The dökkálf repeated the gesture, curving his hand and offering the traditional response to Clare.

"_Sjelen i Skuld, kjøtt av Life, kan vår _seid_ forene oss og bevare freden av den nyfødte verden." _

While the later Viking Muggles had misinterpreted the legendary half-giant wizards as deities to worship and spoke of Freyr and his "light elf" followers with reverence, Surtr's elven allies were cast into myth as deformed, evil creatures. Modern Norwegian wizarding lineage was founded in the intermarriage of the descendants of Lif and Lífþrasir – Muggles that survived the war – with the descendants of Lady Skuld, the half-elven half-witch queen of old, who eventually came to Norway from the land now known as Denmark. The children of these two lines repopulated Norway with magical beings.

The dökkálfar, though they had retreated from the Muggle world to lands below ground, renewed their ties with the wizards and witches of Norway, and helped restore the knowledge and grandeur of ancient Norse sorcery. As the magical population came together and codified laws and banking, the dökkálfar were asked to guard their finances, as the wizards trusted them beyond all others to be fair and judicious with the individual and collective wealth of the magical nation.

The exchange of greeting ended, Clare sat down gracefully in one of the chairs in the office. She gestured for Neville to sit beside her, which he did a bit warily. The dökkálf remained standing.

"Good day, Master Hammars," Clare addressed their accountant. Neville knew the dökkálf had an elfish name as well, but they were secret names kept only among their own kind.

"We would like to make a small withdrawal from Niels' Gringotts account. A Galtap card, and 100 Galleons please."

Hammars blinked once.

"Of course. The Hogwarts Trust, I presume."

Clare nodded her assent.

"One moment."

Hammars strode from the room. Neville was never truly sure how the dökkálfar and the Gringotts goblins communicated and transfers were made. Clare had told him the Gringotts goblins were frightfully territorial over their clients' investments and funds, and most British wizards living abroad were unable to transfer or withdraw money from their home accounts if they did not appear in Gringotts in person. Neville never had to. It might have been a perk of being The-Boy-Who-Lived, but Neville wasn't sure: the dökkálfar had their own fame, notoriety and power among the non-human magic users and a well-respected, equal place in Norwegian magical society that the Gringotts goblins probably couldn't help but admire, even if grudgingly.

The dökkálf returned with the small black card known as the Galtap and a dark green moneybag. It provided an immediate link for merchants with the accounts of customers, in which the customer tapped the card with their wand to authorize the purchase, and the merchant tapped to complete the transfer. It was all the rage in the larger cities of Scandinavia, a convenient invention by the dökkálfar.

Clare and Hammars exchanged the appropriate farewells, and then his aunt was steering him out of the corridor to the exit, where Oscar stood waiting, tapping his foot and jangling his own moneybag.

"Are we going to Baltasar's now?" Oscar asked as they began walking.

"Yes dear," Clare replied. "Now, Niels, Baltasar is a bit, well, _odd_. But don't worry, he's quite an accomplished wandmaker."

"He's completely mad," Oscar whispered in an aside to his cousin, "but he'll sort you out. Gave me my wand with no difficulty."

Neville swallowed nervously. He'd already had one disastrous meeting with a wandmaker, and he wasn't much hoping for anything better this time.

Baltasar's shop was only a five-minute walk from Orkwund, although Neville couldn't quite absorb all the little intricacies of the alleys of Baldrmarket on the journey. He was focusing too much on his nerves, and his desperate fear that he wouldn't find a wand ever. So when the party stopped in front of a small storefront at the end of an alley, with cloudy, dirty windows and seemingly poorly lit, Neville was caught off guard to his aunt's declaration, "Ah! And here we are!"

Pushed through the front door, Neville saw that appearances were certainly deceiving in this case. The drab, shabby outside gave way to black and white marble floors, long, golden wood counters, and twinkling fairy lights illuminating shelf after shelf after shelf of wands. Neville was in awe at the sheer simple grandeur, but where was Baltasar?

"Ah yes, Niels Lindhal." Neville jumped (so did Oscar and Clare, though they covered it a bit better) and he turned to regard the young, tall, dark haired man smiling sardonically at his customers. _Did all wandmakers have that eerily omniscient attitude, knowing every customer name before being introduced?_

Suddenly the man who Neville presumed to be Baltasar rounded to look at Oscar.

"And Mr. Rasmussen! My how you've grown in a year. You're the spitting image of your father Johannes." Oscar stood straight at attention and looked proud.

"Eleven inches, sturdy, dragon heartstring of a Norwegian Ridgeback, bird cherry wood: truly a son of Norway for such a wand."

Oscar smiled broadly at the compliment, while Neville felt his heart sink. He was a son of no one and nowhere, that's how it felt to him. As if sensing his customer's change of mood, Baltasar turned back to Niels.

"Now, your aunt tells me you exhausted dear Mr. Ollivander of all the wands he had brought to your home?"

Neville nodded, slightly wary of the tall dark-haired man before him. Baltasar's green eyes flashed brightly.

"Bah, Elroy is a silly old man these days. Only three possible cores for all the witches and wizards of Britain… preposterous. The man is lazy in his old age, resting on his laurels."

The wandmaker clapped his hands together. "I on the other hand, relish a challenge. I'm relatively young compared to the ancient masters like Ollivander and Gregorovitch, and slightly unproven beyond Norway, so I daresay I'd better welcome one! So Mr. Longbottom, or shall we say Mr. Lindhal," and here the owner smiled knowingly in the face of Neville's amazement, Oscar's protective stare, and Clare's sharp glance, "let's get to it."

Gesturing hospitably to the stool beside the counter, Baltasar swished his wand and boxes upon boxes of wands haphazardly stacked themselves around the room.

"These wands, Mr. Lindhal, have languished in this shop and others for many years, some for centuries. Each is a unique combination of core and wood, to the point that they are somewhat odd, in that it took considerable skill to marry the elements."

The wandmaker opened the first box.

"Here you are, sandalwood and salamander heartstring. Twenty-nine centimeters. Give it a wave."

Feeling as though he were doomed to repeat a second round of endless wand rejection, Neville halfheartedly began to wave the wand. Baltasar simply plucked it from his hand.

"Hmmm, no aromatic wood then. Or reptilian cores," the wandmaker mused quietly. He studied Neville closely. "Dragon heartstrings I'd imagine are out as well."

Neville squirmed slightly on the stool, thinking of his father's rowan and Welsh Green heartstring wand his grandmother's face had all but told him he was unworthy of.

"Let's see what you make of this," Baltasar thrust a new wand in Neville's hand. "Cherry and unicorn tail hair, thirty-two and a half centimeters. Go on then."

Neville again gave it a wave, which lasted a bit longer than his previous attempt before Baltasar removed the wand from his hand.

"Hazel and merrow scale, just over twenty-six centimeters."

Neville has scarcely begun when that wand was plucked from his hand, and a new one placed in it.

"Dogwood and phoenix feather, thirty-eight centimeters."

This wand suffered the fate of the others, being banished back to the box and put back on the shelves. Neville looked at his aunt and cousin with some resignation, but Baltasar chuckled slightly.

"Do you know what I am looking for Mr. Lindhal?"

"No, sir." The young boy shook his head and directed his attention to the man.

"As a wandmaker, I am able to fashion wands for wizards and witches. But unlike say Ollivander, the skills that set me apart from other wandmakers aren't in the craftsmanship. I can identify, indeed see, the connections between wizards and wands, through natural talent and years of study."

Neville remained silent as Baltasar summoned lids off of the stacks of boxes and levitated the wands in air.

"I can tell when a witch is using a wand that isn't particularly suited to her nature or her abilities, and I can advise a wizard on what wand he should select as a second wand for a specific purpose, say dueling or warding."

He looked closely at Neville, and smiled a bit. "After that last wand, I saw that your core should be a flight-capable magical bird. And the wood, while I'm not sure, I think you'd fit best with something in the birch family."

Baltasar swished his own wand once, and four wands shot forward across the counter from the pack of levitating wands. The others fell back into their respective boxes, and with another swish, the boxes went back to their places on the packed shelves.

"Now Mr. Lindhal, if you'd kindly move your hand slowly over the wands before you, I wonder if we might uncover a wand that finds itself well-suited to you."

On the spot, but willing, Neville stretched out his left hand over the first wand. He left it there uncertainly for a few moments, before moving slowly to hover his hand above the second wand. He was beginning to feel immensely foolish, but much to his surprise, as his hand slid to the third wand, there was tingling in his fingertips and the wand jumped into his hand, causing pleasant warmth to spread through his arm.

"Oh!" came Aunt Clare's exclamation, and Oscar whooped.

"Splendid! And now, give it a wave," the wandmaker encouraged.

Smiling broadly, Neville waved the wand, and bright silver sparks and smoky black jets came shooting out.

"Mr. Lindhal, I believe you've found your match. A sliver shy of thirty-six centimeters, hornbeam and ramnmar tail feather, quite a potent combination with possibility for anything, really."

"Ramnmar?"

The joyous family sobered quickly, hearing the ghostly avian creature's name uttered as Neville's core. Ramnmar were magical ravens endemic to Norway, Sweden and Finland. They possessed a homing sense much like owls, but instead of mail, they delivered nightmares and ill omens in the dreams of the recipients. They were notorious in Scandinavia as portents of doom.

The wandmaker shrugged, and took his place behind the counter again.

"It's a slightly more common core than you might think, especially here where ramnmar are still found in the wild and tail feathers are more readily obtainable."

He shook a finger at the pale faces before him. "I'm not a superstitious man; I'm a realist. But if you believe that they are the birds of death, you'd also agree that ramnmar represent intelligence, leadership, and victory in battle. I'll admit, the wand is a powerful one, and hints at greatness."

He shrugged again, and looked directly at Neville. "But The-Boy-Who-Lived… a wand of some power would be expected to choose you, yes? Never fear, Mr. Lindhal. I guarantee it will work as well for pranks and youthful pursuits as for vanquishing dark wizards."

He winked. Oscar brightened considerably at the joke, and Clare handed Baltasar the black Galtap card to deduct the eight Galleons from his school fund. Neville remained quiet, the dark brown wand clutched tightly in his hand. He stayed pensive; he wasn't sure how to feel about Baltasar, or Ollivander, or creepy, cryptic old men with wands in general. He managed a small "thank you" as Baltasar bowed them from his shop.


	6. A Crash Course on Wizarding Britain

_**AN: Thanks to all my reviewers so far! As to whether or not the Boy-Who-Lived is Neville or not, for now, the world believes it to be Neville. Will that change? I'm not giving anything away. **_

_**As to Augusta Longbottom's character change in my fic, I based it off of a few things. In canon, yes, she's proud and a beacon of strength, but does ultimately love her grandson. In my fic, she's been "forced" into exile with Neville, living in a country that is utterly unfamiliar to her, without friends or family beyond an infant at that point. She's had a decade to ruminate on the death of her beloved son. I'd say that she's been waiting to return to England since the day she arrived in Norway, and she has ambivalent feelings about Neville: last Longbottom and her grandson, but he also survived when Frank did not, and precipitated her secluded life in Norway. Hence she has a vested interest in regaining her place in British wizarding society, and certainly sees Neville as a means to that end. **_

_**Here we begin to enter the AU nature of this fic, as Neville is going to Hogwarts, and his journey takes a very different turn than Harry's did in JK's books!**_

_**I own nothing you recognize, and everything you don't.**_

**September 1**

The summer that had been unfolding so slowly for Neville Longbottom suddenly flew by. After the trip to Baldrmarket for his wand, the days all seemed to melt into one another. He still tended to the garden daily, but he was spending more and more time playing with Britta and Oscar, and talking to Aunt Clare, since it had finally set in that he would not be with his family for almost a year. Oscar had been extremely helpful, and had gone through _The Standard Book of Spells_ _Grade 1_ with Neville, pointing out some key spells to experiment with, as well as major differences between all the Norwegian-based spells he had seen his cousin and aunt perform, and the British, mostly Latin based magic he would be expected to learn. Neville was grateful for the assistance, but the two boys were most happy to spend any time together, since they weren't to be school friends as they'd intended.

"Niels! Have you seen my Meteor LXV?"

"I think it's under your bed, Oscar. Did you put back my copy of _The Norse Legacy_? I don't want to leave without it!"

"Yes, it's on top of your pile of robes!"

Today, September 1, the entire Rasmussen / Lindhal family was heading to Trondheim to the Norwegian Ministry of Magic. Oscar would be taking one of the designated Valhalla International Portkeys (commonly referred to as VIPs) to the port town of Nynäshamn, Sweden, where the fast ferry _The Valkyrie_ was docked to deliver students to Visby on the island of Gotland. The dramatic walls of the Valhalla Lyceum were a short carriage ride away, and the school's herd of Granian winged horses dropped off the pupils at the castle outside of Eadgilstad.

Neville, meanwhile would be taking a special international Portkey to London with Grandmother Longbottom, to the British Ministry of Magic, and from there be taken to King's Cross Station to get to Hogwarts.

Aunt Clare and Britta were coming to see both boys (and the Longbottom matriarch) off. However, the entire party was supposed to have Flooed to the Ministry five minutes ago, but there was always something else someone hadn't remembered to pack…

"Mum! I've forgotten Madoc's cage!"

"Oscar, it's in the living room next to the Floo. Don't worry, I cleaned it for you as well."

Finally, after a few aborted starts, the family assembled in the living room. Neville was holding Vali in his basket and sitting on his large trunk of school supplies. Clare motioned for him to stand up.

"Quickly now, Niels. Let me shrink your trunk; Grandmother will unshrink it for you at King's Cross. _Rasktkrympe_!"

Clare used the Norweigan Swift Shrink Charm on Neville and Oscar's trunks, as well as Madoc's cage. Holding Britta's hand, she threw Floo Powder onto the fire, which roared green.

"Norwegian Ministry of Magic!"

Once they had gone through, Oscar stepped through as well, along with his trunk and owl. Grandmother Longbottom took a pinch and stepped through imperiously. Alone in the house, Neville took a last look at the familiar living room, dining room, kitchen… with a deep breath, he threw his own pinch of Powder into the flames.

"Norwegian Ministry of Magic," he said quietly, then stepped into the fire.

**Norwegian Ministry of Magic, Trondheim**

Neville climbed out of the Floo gingerly in the Gullsalen, the main atrium of the Norwegian Ministry of Magic. Even though he'd been here plenty of times before with Aunt Clare, he often felt nervous in the building. It was stately and grand: the walls and ceiling were widely held to have been plastered with alchemical gold leaf rather than a standard color charm during the building's creation. As a result, the interiors gleamed so brilliantly and brightly that the atrium never need require any Cleaning Charms, hence the atrium's colloquial name of the Gullsalen, the "Golden Hall." Neville always felt he should be minding his manners and making himself as small as possible in a place of so much grandeur, importance and brilliance.

Trondheim had been Norway's center of wizarding politics and culture since it's founding by Norway's second incarnation of wizards, the descendants of Lady Skuld and those of Lif and Lífþrasir. Magical Niðarós, the old name for Trondheim, had been founded nearly three centuries before the Muggle settlement of the same name. Though Muggles had moved their seat of power to Áslo in the late 13th century (now Oslo), Norwegian wizards and witches had kept Trondheim as their capital.

"_Oppmerksomhet studenter av Valhalla. Morgenen transport vil bli avreise fra startpunkt i cirka femten minutter._"

A cool crisp voice was magically amplified throughout the Ministry, which promptly sent Britta into her now routine hysterics at the prospect of her brother's imminent departure. Neville felt his heart flutter, this should have been him. He should be going with Oscar to the morning VIP, but instead... Oscar looked closely at his cousin.

"Well, Niels? Good luck to you."

Eleven and twelve, both off to school for their first and second years respectively, neither was sure how to properly say goodbye in public. It ended with a resounding clap on the back for Neville, as his cousin threw an arm around him and promised to owl once a month with a Valhalla school owl, so as not to wear out poor Madoc.

The blond boy knelt down and kissed the bawling Britta on the cheek, gave a polite nod to Grandmother Longbottom, and then warmly embraced his mother. He straightened up, grabbed Madoc's cage – his trunk was still nicely shrunk in his pockets – and walked towards the VIP Departure Point.

The rest of the family continued to wait in the Gullsalen, until an elderly, bespectacled wizard approached them and directed through an annex of the Department of Transportation.

The family found themselves in a small, bare room, with a Muggle raincoat spread out on a table. The elderly wizard gestured at the raincoat.

"There's your Portkey. It's set to transport you two at 10:05 AM precisely, in four mintues, Mrs. Lindhal, Mr. Lindhal," he nodded at Grandmother Longbottom and Neville.

Britta immediately issued a large howl, followed by a stream of tears. The wizard excused himself, smiling awkwardly. Clare rubbed her daughter's back.

"There, there, Britta dear. Niels will be back sooner than you think, for Jul, hmm?"

"I think not," Grandmother Longbottom said stuffily, and Clare, Neville, and Britta stared at the woman. "Neville shall be spending Christmas vacation at Longbottom Manor. It is high time he came to know the country of his birth. In fact, he shall host a large holiday fete celebrating his reentry to English wizarding society, naturally with my help."

Neville looked appropriately horrified and Britta set up a fresh round of wailing. Clare glared at Augusta.

"Never fear then. We shall also spend our holiday in Britain, and bring Jul to these unsuspecting Englishmen. Dear Alice and Frank," Clare continued in a louder voice as she saw Grandmother Longbottom open her mouth to refuse this proposal, "always welcomed Johannes and I to the Manor, and as Neville is the Lord and Master of Longbottom Manor, I suspect we will _always_ be welcomed there. Right, Niels?"

Neville just nodded vigorously, a bit shocked by his aunt's revelations. He distracted himself by hugging little Britta, and talking to her quietly to soothe her fears.

Clare smiled at Grandmother Longbottom, who had her lips in a thin, disapproving line.

"Augusta, you know of course that I am as familiar with Frank and Alice's will as you are. You may be the acting head of the family until Neville comes of age, but the Manor is entailed to him, not you. Please remember that next time you try to separate my nephew from me."

Clare picked up the now sniffing Britta, and then gave Neville a large warm hug.

"Don't be afraid, Niels," she whispered. "Hogwarts will be wonderful: you'll see. You'll make friends and have all sorts of fun. Britain is a bit different than Norway, but you'll figure things out. You've got a great instinct for people, Niels. Just keep in mind that children are not their parents… and that holds true for you. Your parents would be so proud of you, Niels, just like I am, and they would be proud of you for being yourself, not just for being a good son or the last of family."

Neville quickly brushed away the welling tears in Clare's shoulder. They broke apart and he smiled at her.

"I will miss you, Aunt Clare."

"We will miss you too, Niels. Please write to us when you can. We will see you for Jul!"

The boy took hold of the raincoat along with his Grandmother, making sure he had Vali's basket held tightly in his other hand. Clare smiled at her nephew, and nodded at Augusta. The last thing Neville heard and saw in Norway were the loud sniffles of Britta and the warm smile of Aunt Clare.

**British Ministry of Magic, London**

Much to Neville's surprise, as the Portkey warped him and Grandmother Longbottom into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, the first thing he could hear was frenzied clicking. He couldn't quite make sense of it until he was able to get his bearings and get a good look around, at which point the frenzied clicking was nearly drowned out by a loud buzz.

"Mr. Longbottom, how do you feel reentering your home nation for the first time?"

"Will you comment on your whereabouts for the last eleven years?"

"Are you prepared to represent British wizarding kind?"

"Neville, what Hogwarts House would you most like to be part of? Gryffindor, like your father, or Hufflepuff, like your mother?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Mr. Longbottom, what do you have to say to all the skeptics and critics who believed you'd abandoned Britain forever after saving it from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Welcome back, Mr. Longbottom. Welcome back!"

The loud buzz of the four-dozen gathered journalists and photographers was itself bested by this last loud proclamation. A man spoke heartily and walked quickly towards the Longbottoms, flanked by two wizards in robes Neville recognized as being the same Auror uniforms that his dad had worn in many photos. He was extremely oddly dressed in Neville's estimation, wearing a pinstriped suit, scarlet tie, and pointed purple boots, topped off by a lime green bowler hat. Neville couldn't think of a more ridiculous outfit – wizards and Muggles alike wore very sensible, standard clothing in Norway.

"Minister Fudge," Augusta stated clearly, "Neville and I are humbled by your kind attentions and reception."

The oddly dressed man – this was the British Minister of Magic? _Seriously?_ – bowed to the Longbottom matriarch.

"Madam, we are honored to welcome you to the Ministry of Magic, and welcome back our very own Neville Longbottom to Britain!"

He grabbed Neville's hand and shook it vigorously, and a round of flashbulbs went off.

"Neville will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The Ministry will certainly be watching over you, and the goodwill of British wizarding society goes with you. Dawlish, please bring up the Portkey!"

A third Auror with short gray hair and a tough-looking visage approached Neville and Augusta with a tea cozy. The Longbottom matriarch held it firmly in her grasp, and then looked at her grandson.

As Neville reached out to hold the tea cozy, he felt the Portkey activate almost immediately. Another frenzied rounded of clicks could be heard from the photographers, and then they were gone from the Ministry.

**Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Kings Cross, London**

The Portkey deposited Neville and Grandmother Longbottom right in the middle of the platform, and as Neville looked about, he gasped at the sight.

He'd heard Oscar's delighted stories about _The Valkyrie_, the express ferry that delivered students from Stockholm, the large quarterdeck, the dining cabins, the other assortment of magical creatures and persons that shared the ferry to arrive in Eadgilstead, the large magical-only settlement outside Valhalla. And even in his excitement to attend school, he was still a bit upset about being forced to attend Hogwarts.

But nothing prepared him for the _Hogwarts Express_. Shining, gleaming, with steam pouring from the chimney, it was a beautiful train, and Neville was awed by it. Wizarding families milled about, hoisting trunks and saying farewells as young children ran rapidly around the platform.

Suddenly, Augusta reached out and smoothed the creases in her grandson's checkered shirt. Neville was surprised – it was an intimate gesture for the Longbottom matriarch – and turned his face up to her. She looked back at him critically.

"Neville, you are attending Hogwarts to restore the honor and glory to the Longbottom name, after we have been forgotten in our exile or relegated to mere myth. You are not Niels Lindhal, nor are you The Boy Who Lived. You are Neville Francis Longbottom, scion of Francis Edmund Longbottom, the last heir to the pureblood Longbottom family. And you must remember this, and make me and your departed father proud if you can."

With a wave of her wand, Neville's grandmother quickly unshrunk and levitated his trunk onto the train. As the first warning whistle sounded for imminent departure, Augusta shook her grandson's hand stiffly.

"Good luck and get aboard."

The boy hesitated, torn between fantasies of making a run for it, dashing back to the Ministry of Magic, and finding some way to create an international Portkey to Visby and Valhalla - and the throbbing desire to exceed his grandmother's low expectations of him. In the end, he sighed softly, placed Vali's basket on top of the trunk and held onto the railing and clambered aboard the train.

"Goodbye, Grandmother."

"Goodbye, Neville."

The train began to pull away, and Neville caught a final glimpse of the Longbottom matriarch, her mouth set in a firm line but her eyes betrayed her emotion. The boy didn't think it was for him: he assumed she was remembering the numerous times she'd taken his father Frank to the train during his Hogwarts days.

He pulled his trunk down the corridor, past gossiping witches, loud, boisterous wizards, and scattered groups of first years looking equal parts excited and apprehensive. In the middle of the train, he came across a seemingly empty compartment, save a shabby bundle of robes near the window, and immediately took the opportunity to stow his trunk, place the still sleeping Vali on a seat and sit next to his dog. A bit exhausted from the long Floo and Portkey travel, not to mention the bizarre meeting in the British Ministry, Neville closed his eyes, hoping for a nice kip.

"What are you doing in here?"

Neville jerked in surprise, opening his eyes to see another boy sitting beside him, glaring at him suspiciously. Neville gaped at the boy then shut his mouth quickly.

"Sorry, I didn't see you when I came in. Er - do you mind if I sit here?"

The other boy was silent, but his eyes widened at Neville's request. Neville was perplexed: he hadn't asked anything too out of the ordinary. Suddenly he grew nervous. _Ahh, he's seen my scar, and doesn't want me to sit with him._

"Oh… well, sorry then," Neville stood up awkwardly. "I'll be going-"

"No! I mean, no, you don't have to go," the boy jumped up frantically at first, then seemed to compose himself. The boy took a deep breath, and Neville was again confused by his odd behavior.

"Please sit."

"Thanks."

The two boys sat and regarded each other carefully in silence, taking care to not let the other see. Neville realized that the boy had been in the compartment the whole time, curled up on the seat, and Neville had mistaken him for being a bundle of robes when instead he was merely wearing them. The boy's eyes looked a bit misty, as though he'd been crying recently, but the rest of his face was drawn into an impenetrable mask. His hair was so blond it could nearly be white, and the boy had a pale complexion that contrasted starkly with his dark, patched robes. Suddenly, their eyes met, and the boys stopped their investigations, Neville staring fixedly at the floor while the other boy looked out the window.

After another few minutes of silence, Neville was frustrated with himself. He was just another kid, like himself, and obviously even more scared of Hogwarts than he was. _Talk to him,_ came his inner voice.

"I'm Neville, by the way," he said, holding out his hand and smoothing his hair down over his scar.

The other boy seemed dumbstruck for a couple of seconds and Neville was beginning to regret his bold move when the boy took his hand and shook it lightly.

"Draco."

Silence hung in the compartment. Neville wasn't quite sure what to make of his companion, and wished yet again that he was on the _Valkyrie_ with Oscar. But after recalling Aunt Clare's encouraging thoughts about friends and fun at Hogwarts, Neville thought it might be worth a try.

"Like Quidditch any?" It was the first topic that came to mind. Neville himself was serviceable on a broom, but didn't much enjoy playing. _Watching_ Quidditch, however, he did enjoy with great enthusiasm.

The pale boy turned to Neville, surprised yet again to have been addressed.

"Yeah. Yes. Falmouth Falcons. You?"

"Er, I don't really follow British club teams. Soft spot for the Pride of Portree though."

"Yes, The Prides are always competitive, even if they don't win. National team?"

"Um," Neville knew he wasn't supposed to reveal to people which country he lived in, "I like a few squads. Canada, Germany, Nepal's turning out to have a great year… and England, of course, though they're not doing so well. You?"

"Any of the teams from Britain, and France."

It was tentative, but a conversation had managed to take root, of course centered on the wizarding obsession that was Quidditch. The two boys had just managed to get into a discussion about the merits of the Scottish team, who had been performing horribly recently with losses to Andorra and Uruguay, but were far superior to the Welsh team and vastly outstripped the lowly English squad, when the compartment door opened.

A young girl with long black hair held back by a royal blue hairband entered, dragging a large trunk behind her with some difficulty, as a small cat riding on her shoulder seemed to inhibit her progress. The blond boy immediately leapt up to help the newcomer, which based on his earlier reticence, completely surprised Neville.

"Thanks, Draco. I've been looking for you for ages. Knew you'd be here somewhere," she said between breaths as they heaved the trunk onto the rack. She turned to Neville, and gave him a cool glance.

"Who are you?"

The young boy blushed slightly to be asked so directly by a girl his own age. "Er- I'm Neville Longbottom."

The girl stared at him for a moment, then flipped her hair over her shoulder and extended her hand, her blue-gray eyes regarding him seriously.

"Ariadne Black."

He shook it briefly, and the three first years sat down in the compartment.

"So… how do you know Draco?"

"Oh," she shrugged nonchalantly. Ariadne's cat made an elegant leap, stared hard in the direction of the sleeping Vali, and finally settled down in her lap quietly. "He's my cousin, more or less."

"Cousin?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "I did mention that, yes, cousin. My father is the cousin of his mother."

"Really, Ariadne? A kitsune?"

Draco arched a brow and pointed at the contented creature. Neville took a second look at Ariadne's familiar: he'd thought it was a cat, but on closer inspection it was a ruddy-colored animal, closer to a fox than cat. Three bushy tails were the kitsune's only noticeable difference.

Ariadne smiled. "I went with Mum to Japan this summer, and found Momoe in this amazing menagerie. Bought her with my own pocket money." She scratched the kitsune's ear, Momoe stretched her neck and let out a musical purr of contentment.

"Now then," and here the girl rustled through her bag and pulled out a book, "I just got this yesterday from Mum as going-away present, and I'd like to continue reading it, if you don't mind."

Neville craned his head to read the title: _Self-Defensive Spellwork_ by M.A. Testudo. He looked at Draco, and both boys shrugged. Draco sank back down in his seat, but looked far less glum than before. Neville pulled out his worn copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_; he never got tired of Herbology, and they were on the train to school after all.

They sat in silence for a while, Ariadne intently reading, Draco staring out the window, and Neville thoughtfully contemplating his book. Not fifteen minutes had passed when…

"Excuse me, but have you seen a kitten?"

The door to the compartment burst open, and a bushy-haired girl with rather prominent front teeth immediately leapt into an interrogation. A meek girl with strawberry-blonde hair quietly crept up behind her as she continued.

"She's a Calico British Shorthair, with black and orange on her paws. Susan missed her since we got onto the train, and we're asking everyone we see. Are you first years as well? We are, terribly exciting to be here I'd say. And you're reading! How wonderful! I do think the curriculum looks incredibly challenging, but manageable, I've read all the coursebooks three times and know them by heart. But that wasn't on the course list, was it? _Self-Defensive Spellwork_, goodness I _know_ I didn't pick that one up! Oh, this is Susan Bones, and I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

It all came out rapid fire, and the two boys blinked and looked at each other stupidly, while Ariadne barely lifted her eyes from her book. Neville figured he could at least introduce himself and be polite, even if he hadn't gotten anything else she was saying other than her name.

"Neville Longbottom." He looked at Draco, who didn't seem keen to introduce himself but did so.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Hermione's mouth had opened to say something, but the voice came from behind her. Susan was eyeing Draco with no small amount of fear and anger.

"Yes," was Draco's weary, reluctant reply.

"Is there a problem?" Neville asked mildly. In the corner, Ariadne raised her piercing blue-gray eyes and narrowed them at the girls dangerously.

"Come on, Hermione. They haven't seen anything. Let's go."

Susan quickly stepped through to the next compartment. Hermione quickly shut her mouth and followed her friend, but not before throwing a wide-eyed look at Neville.

As the compartment door clicked shut, Draco sighed and put his head against the window again. Ariadne was gazing sympathetically at her cousin, alternated by rapid dark glares at the door the girls had gone through.

"What was that about?" Neville asked.

"Nothing at all," Ariadne quickly answered sharply. "It's not important-"

"It's me," Draco said softly. "Or more accurately, my name."

Again, Neville was perplexed. "What's wrong with your name?"

Draco kept his eyes on the floor, while Ariadne looked apprehensive.

"My father is in Azkaban. He was on the wrong side in the war," and here Draco's voice became tight, "and he was arrested and sent to Azkaban for the rest of his life."

"When he was imprisoned, everything we had was confiscated for war reparations. My mother and I had nowhere to turn: no one would have anything to do with us. And my mother's family wouldn't take us in either," he said with his eyes flickering on Ariadne.

She sighed and stretched out her hand, squeezing the pale boy's hand in her own.

"That's because my family and their friends can be as ignorant and shortsighted as the pureblood enthusiasts they hate so much. But you've always had Mum and me, and I think Aunt Andromeda is coming around."

Draco managed a weak smile at her, and then looked at the floor yet again.

"Everyone knows, so you may as well know too," he said quietly, addressing Neville. "I'd understand if you wanted to move to a different compartment."

The whole conversation was over Neville's head, and he had a feeling he was missing vital information about British wizarding society. He shook his head, he couldn't very well leave now! The boy was obviously distressed and embarrassed about the whole situation, and hadn't Aunt Clare told him that children were not their parents?

"I'm comfortable where I am."

Ariadne shot him a grateful smile, while Draco continued looking at the floor. Awkward silence descended upon the trio, until a trolley witch arrived with a cart full of pastries and sweets. Neville took the opportunity to buy three of everything interesting and share with the two cousins.

The tension had finally lessened, and Draco was finally animated as the boys and Ariadne tried successively more disgusting Bertie's Beans. They had collapsed in laughter as Draco bravely tried a green speckled bean, which he promptly spat out panting, labeling it "toad".

"It's a riot though, isn't it? My younger brother Zeph adores them, eats them three at a time to achieve 'maximum flavor awesomeness' as he puts it," Ariadne giggled.

"Oh, you have siblings?" Neville asked politely.

"Yes, and unfortunately more than just one," the girl grumbled. "I've got a baby sister, Maia, who is four and sweet as can be, until she doesn't get her way. Then there's Zephyrus, Zeph, he's seven and just fantastic. And then I have a younger sister who thinks she is queen of the ten year olds. Hypatia… she'll be at Hogwarts next year, Merlin help us all."

Neville chuckled quietly, and looked at Draco who seemed a bit downcast. It didn't take a huge leap for Neville to figure out why.

"I don't have siblings either," he said quietly, and Draco snapped his head to look at him. "I do have two cousins that I get along well with, like you have Ariadne."

Draco nodded. Ariadne smiled at Neville in response.

Suddenly the compartment door slid open. It wasn't the bushy haired girl, or her rude friend. Instead, it was a gangly redheaded boy and a black-haired boy with glasses and bright green eyes. The atmosphere changed immediately: Ariadne sat back in her seat and opened her book again, though there was a challenge and irritation in her expression while Draco slunk a bit in his corner, looking at the newcomers with some dread.

"They've been saying Neville Longbottom is in this compartment," the redhead said excitedly. He looked directly at Neville. "You're him, aren't you?"

Blushing slightly at being addressed in such a way, Neville nodded.

"Blimey!" The redhead turned to his friend. "The twins thought it was a prank, The Boy Who Lived coming to Hogwarts. Imagine how jealous they'll be when we tell 'em we've seen him, Harry!"

The black-haired boy named Harry made a noncommittal noise.

"You look a lot bigger in all the books," he said to Neville.

"Can we see the scar?" the readhead asked excitedly. Neville sighed, and pushed his hair off his forehead, where the lightning bolt scar lay.

"Wicked," the two boys breathed.

"Can you remember anything about You-Know-Who?" Harry asked.

"What, Voldemort?" Neville asked.

The two boys looked scandalized and frightened, while Draco winced. Ariadne shot a surprised look at Neville, but turned her eyes back to the newcomers.

"Are you barking? Don't say the name, mate!" The redhead hissed.

"Only the most powerful and brave of wizards say You-Know-Who's name," Harry added. "Like my dad, James Potter, one of the bravest Aurors in the Ministry, and a true Gryffindor. Just like me."

Ariadne snorted disdainfully, and Harry turned to look at her.

"Alright Ari, laugh now, but you're definitely going to be one too."

"Please don't call me that ridiculous name," she said witheringly.

"Whatever, Ari. Me, Dad and Uncle Sirius know you'll end up in Gryffindor anyway."

Neville looked at her questioningly, but the girl took no notice. She closed her book with a scornful look at Harry.

"And Jack and Mum are picking her old house of Ravenclaw, but Hypatia is going with Hufflepuff out of spite."

Ariadne delivered this in a drawling voice that Neville suspected she was deliberately playing up. Harry exchanged a shocked glance with the redhead.

"Yes, I know about the little wager. And guess what, Potter? My Galleons are with the smart choice, and _your_ mum agrees: Slytherin."

Harry Potter and the redhead made disgusted faces. "No way you'll be a slimy snake, right Ron?" The gangly boy named Ron nodded vigorously.

Harry then turned his gaze on the very quiet Draco in the corner, who looked up fearfully but defiantly.

"Not like this scum over here. How can you even stand talking to him, Ari?"

"He's my cousin and my friend, Potter. And unlike much of my family or yours, I don't have problems with people based on their circumstances."

Ron rolled his eyes and muttered, "Mental, absolutely mental." Harry meanwhile turned back to Neville.

"Believe me, you don't want to be friends with the likes of him," the boy said jerking his thumb at Draco. "I'm happy to help you there," he said extending his hand.

Neville looked back at the boy, but made no move to shake the offered hand. "I'm pretty sure I can decide who I want to be friends with for myself, thanks."

Potter blinked at Neville, then recovered with a smirk. "Look, Longbottom, everyone knows you haven't lived in Britain for a long time. You're bound to be behind, but hanging out with Slytherin snakes will do you no good in the end."

His friend the redhead broke in with glee, "All of 'em, they're all dangerous, poisonous snakes. Slimy, sneaking scum, like father, like son."

Draco's eyes flashed, and quicker than Neville thought possible, he was on his feet with his wand in his hand, pointed straight at Ron. Harry wasn't much slower behind him, with his wand out pointed directly at Draco.

"Say that again, Weasley," Draco said, his voice shaking a little bit. "Say that again, and I'll show you how dangerous I can be."

"Draco," Ariadne said warningly. Ron had his wand out, but was not pointing it directly at Draco, though he was wary. Neville stood up too, wand in his hand but not pointing it at either intruder.

Harry smiled. As placid a person as he normally was, Neville was becoming incredibly irritated by these fellow first-years.

"Don't try to hide it, Ari. He's ready to curse us all, showing his true colors. See, Longbottom? It's no use trying with the likes of him. He's a Slytherin alright, and there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin."

At that Ariadne stood up from her seat in the compartment, her wand now in her hand but pointing up, not at anyone in particular. With a furious look on her face, she advanced on Harry and Ron.

"Hmmm, not one evil witch or wizard that wasn't from Slytherin?" She tapped her temple with a finger, furrowing her brow in mock concentration.

"Funny that. How quickly you forget _Wormtail,_ was a Gryffindor."

She spat the name out distastefully, but never took her eyes from the dark-haired boy, who grew pale.

"Don't even try to explain that one, your hypocrisy will shine through it all. Now get out of our compartment."

She kept her wand pointing up, but made a small, complicated wave with it and said firmly, "_Repello Inimicum._"

Harry tried to take a step towards Ariadne, mouth open in protest, but shut it quickly and stopped abruptly. He scowled at the gobsmacked Neville and Draco.

"C'mon, Ron. Let's get back to the twins and Lee."

As the compartment door slammed behind them, Neville and Draco both let out audible sighs of relief. Ariadne stowed her wand in her pocket, and sat back down in her seat. Her cat/kitsune Momoe settled back into her lap as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and she returned to the pages of _Self-Defensive Spellwork_.

"What was all that, Ariadne?" Draco asked as he sat back down near the window.

"It's a basic variant of the Repelling Spell. It will keep anyone away that might mean you harm," Ariadne said offhandedly, turning the page. She looked at Draco and Neville, and then gave a small smile.

"I actually just read about it, but it seemed like a good way to get out of all that without a fight on the _Hogwarts Express_."

"Good thing too," Draco inclined his head out the window. "Because we're nearly there."

In spite of himself, Neville clambered over to the window with Draco, Ariadne hovering just behind. He could see mountains and forest, and the train seemed to be slowing slightly, but he couldn't see the castle.

"How do you know we're almost there?"

"My mum," Draco replied, and Neville could hear his voice soften, "she told me what to look for on the train to know if we were close."

As though confirming Draco's account, a voice resounded through the train.

"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Neville's stomach did quick flip-flops of anxiety. Hogwarts… this was it!


	7. The Sentient Sombrero

_**AN: It took me a bit to figure out how to get around the weird glitch about updating stories, but finally found out about the workaround and was able to post!**_

_**Also, you'll meet some of the canon and AU siblings in this fic, some in Book 2 if I ever get there!**_

_**Also, I never liked the uneven number of students, and how you weren't sure if every house had the same numbers and there were students never spoken about? So I've added a few names to the sorting, and in my world, there are 10 students per house per year, 5 female, 5 male.**_

_**Disclaimer: Do not own HP, own my OCs. Some lines in this chapter come directly from "The Journey from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters" and "The Sorting Hat" chapters of Philosopher's Stone.**_

_**Hope you enjoy!**_

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As Neville hastily changed into his robes, the _Hogwarts Express_ came to a gradual stop. Floods of people excited the train out on to a tiny, dark platform. Neville shivered for a moment, but the winters of Norway would certainly prepare anyone for the fall chill in Scotland. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and a booming voice called over the crowds: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

An absolute giant of a man – Neville actually considered the idea that the man _was _half-giant, as he'd met quite a few in Norway, one of the few countries that stil had a substantial native giant population – was scanning the crowd, waving the lamp vigourosly at the smallest lot of students.

"He's enormous," Draco muttered to Neville and Ariadne. Then Draco yelped and jumped sideways, and though he couldn't see in the dark, Neville imagined an elbow to the ribs might have done it.

"That's Hagrid, the groundskeeper. He's as nice as they come, Draco, so watch it," Ariadne hissed at her cousin.

"C'mon, follow me — any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

They gingerly walked down the winding, twisting path, taking care not to tread on each other. It was hazardous, to be sure: Neville wasn't entirely sure he knew where his feet were stepping, but continued to following the bobbing lamp.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud exclamation from the students as they caught sight of the castle, situated dramatically on top of a mountain, with a vast black lack between the students and the school. The night sky was illuminated by the stars that shone brightly around the castle, creating a very impressive picture. Neville wondered what Oscar would make of it, if the approach to Valhalla was similar…

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid's voice broke into Neville's thoughts. Ariadne groaned at the sight of the small boats by the waters edge. Neville, Draco, and Ariadne clambered onto a boat, and were joined by a sandy-haired fellow first year.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then — FORWARD!"

And at once, they were off, cruising at decent speed on the tranquil waters of the lake. It was an extremely quiet trip, and Neville looked round at his companions. Ariadne seemed to be drinking in the sight of the castle while doing her best to ignore the water surrounding her, the sandy-haired boy had his mouth wide open in sheer awe, and Draco seemed to grow paler and paler the closer the boat got, in what little moonlight Neville could see him in.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; everyone paid attention and bent their heads, going through an ivy fence and intopo a tunnel beneath the castle.

Reaching the rocky, subterranean harbor, Ariadne quickly leapt ashore breathing deeply. Neville, Draco, and the sandy-haired boy followed close behind as they once again reach a winding passageway. Climbing up after Hagrid's lamp, they came at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes with a critical eye and thin mouth opened the door. Neville was immediately reminded of Grandmother Longbottom, and figured she was quite strict.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide, so Neville could see the spacious entrance hall, with standard flaming torches lighting the walls and a grand marble staircase in the center. The first years followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor to a small, empty chamber off the hall. After they had all huddled together in the room, they were silent under the stern gaze of the professor.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House common room.

"The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your House points, while any rulebreaking will lose House points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes rapidly scanned the first-year students, as though looking for particularly unkempt first-years to frown at. Neville smoothed his robes nervously.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Neville and Draco exchanged nervous glances. Ariadne crossed her arms and stared into space. Neville looked round: everyone else seemed to be on edge as well, except for Harry Potter and his rude friend Ron, who were sniggering in the back corner. Neville could just catch a bit of their conversation, a great prank of some kind? He leaned towards the boys to hear more, but then the professor returned.

"Now, form a line and follow me."

It was the final pronouncement of doom: Neville would never be a Valhalla student now. He got into line behind Draco, with Ariadne in front of her cousin, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Neville was immediately hit by just how magical it was. The Great Hall was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them.

Neville looked at Draco. "Awesome," he breathed. Draco just nodded, his eyes taking it in as well.

Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Ariadne pointed up at the ceiling, which was inky black and dotted with stars. She whispered quietly to the boys, "Mum told me it's bewitched to look like the sky outside_._"

It was impressive, and Neville couldn't help marveling at the ceiling openmouthed. And then, for the first time, Neville thought that his father and mother had once stood where he stood – perhaps in this very spot! – waiting to be Sorted, marveling at the ceiling. Before classes, and finding each other, and the War, and everything… and suddenly Neville found himself trying to breathe steadily and quietly, and calm himself so he wasn't shaking or crying in front of the whole of Hogwarts.

Neville focused his gaze on Professor McGonagall as she returned and silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the hat began to sing:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

Suddenly the hat stopped singing. The whole hall was hushed, and Neville could see students turning to each other rapidly. Then the hat jerked wildly, as though in some sort of fit, until at last it expanded in a large boom, and returned to the stool as an overlarge black sombrero, still frayed and patched, to the astonished cries and bouts of applause of the students and faculty. Two redheaded boys at one of the tables stood up and bowed a few times.

Taking no notice of its new state, the hat resumed singing:

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid_!

_And don't get in a flap_!

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap_!"

Most of the tables burst into applause as the twins raised their hands and blew kisses to the raucous students. They silenced only when Professor McGonagall's wand went off with a deafening bang. She stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the - sombrero," and here the professor gave a frosty glare at the Gryffindor table, "and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. She looked down at the scroll.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the sombrero, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause…

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat cried out.

The table on the right burst into applause, welcoming Hannah as she sat down quietly.

"Archimmel, Iris!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The skinny brunette girl shuffled to the table on the far left, which was clapping loudly.

"Beauguard, Rose!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted again, and Neville could see the ghost of the Fat Friar cheering merrily for her.

"Black, Ariadne!"

Neville watched as Ariadne paled in line, then fixed an apathetic look to her face, and walked briskly towards the stool. Her sorting took far longer than the three previous girls, going on almost two minutes. He and Draco looked at each other, unsure of what was happening, when the brim split open and yelled,

"SLYTHERIN!"

"I didn't expect that at all," Draco whispered quietly to Neville as they clapped, and the table second from the left broke into more effusive applause.

"I thought she'd be Gryffindor or Ravenclaw."

"Why not Slytherin? She said so herself on the train that she bet she'd be in it," Neville asked, refraining from clapping when Susan Bones was made a Hufflepuff. She may have been in his mother's old house, but from their interaction on the train, she certainly lacked the grace and friendliness that his mother was known for and that he supposed Hufflepuff students often had.

Draco frowned slightly. "Her father- well, let's just say he hates everything and anything related to Slytherin."

"But why?" Neville had turned to look closely at Draco, ignoring Boot, Terry and Brocklehurst, Mandy joining Ravenclaw and Brown, Lavender going to Gryffindor.

"All of his family was in Slytherin, except him. He was a Gryffindor. Thinks Slytherins are inherently evil."

Neville pondered this, looking at where Bulstrode, Millicent had sat down beside Ariadne at the Slytherin table. They certainly weren't the most friendly-looking group of people, he conceded, but nothing about their faces or posture seemed to exude "bad wizards in training."

"Do you think you'll go to Slytherin?"

For a moment, Draco drew himself up haughtily, then slumped and frowned again thoughtfully.

"Honestly, I don't know. My family's been in Slytherin for ages, on both sides, but I'm not- well, I'm not the typical Malfoy heir."

Neville wanted to reply and follow this line of thought, but Draco turned away from him, clapping politely as D'Avis, Gemma headed to Gryffindor. Neville sighed and focused his attention on the sorting.

It was pretty interesting, he decided, watching as the hat made split-second decisions for some people, while seemed to take hours for others, even when they went to the same house. Finnegan, Seamus had sat on the stool for a full three minutes, before the hat called out Gryffindor, but the girl with Susan Bones on the train, Hermione, only had the hat on for ten seconds when she followed him to the table on the far left. Goldstein, Anthony was made a Ravenclaw five seconds after the hat had been on his head; on the other hand, Finch-Fletchley, Justin had been on the stool for minute and a half when the hat finally called out Hufflepuff.

Neville did note that the other Slytherins took little to no time to be named to their houses. Goyle, Gregory and Greengrass, Daphne were both off to the Slytherin table in very little time. In fact, Ariadne's was the longest sorting into Slytherin so far.

Maybe it had to do with a person being good for multiple houses or a person suited best for one house? Neville himself didn't know what to think: he wasn't feeling particularly brave, cunning, loyal, or wise at the moment. Was it possible he wouldn't be picked for any house?

"Ow- Hey!"

Draco had elbowed him sharply in the ribs. Neville made a face, but the blond haired boy whispered quietly.

"I think you're next."

Neville looked up, the blood rushing from his face. He had completely missed two first-years being sorted, and he hadn't even heard the name of the girl currently being sorted, taking a long time with the hat. Neville swallowed, pushing his fear down his throat and trying to be calm.

"RAVENCLAW," the sombrero finally shouted. And then-

"Longbottom, Neville!"

Nervous to walk out in front of all the students, Neville shot a weak smile at Draco and headed for the stool. He caught fragmented whispers as he walked to the sorting hat.

"_Longbottom_, did she say?"

"_The _Neville Longbottom?"

"The Boy Who Lived at Hogwarts!"

"Mum said he'd left England, I can't believe I'll be at school with him!"

Finally reaching the stool, Neville sighed as he put the hat over his head. It slid down, obscuring his eyes so he couldn't see the Great Hall and the curious students whispering about him.

"Oh? What have we here? Interesting case…"

Neville was shocked at first to hear a voice in his head, but realized it must be how the hat evaluated potential and sorted the students.

"Of course: what else would everyone be doing up here? Hmmm, you've got a decent brain in there, even if you aren't exactly academically inclined. Definitely fiercely loyal to your friends and family, but only those you let in. Plenty of courage and bravery, I see. And a chip on your shoulder too. So where shall I put you?"

Neville stayed quiet, his mind whirring as he hoped the sombrero would speed up the decision.

"You're not a seeker of knowledge for knowledge's sake, so Ravenclaw's out. You could most certainly be a Hufflepuff. In fact, you have all the makings of one, except for those lurking _wants_ in the background…the desire to prove to your grandmother that you aren't as worthless as she thinks, to be more than The-Boy-Who-Lived. You want to put it all together, and make something of yourself?"

_Yes_, Neville thought desperately.

"Alright. Then the place for you is GRYFFINDOR!"

Neville took the hat off as it shouted the last word aloud, making his way over to the table in a daze. He hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheers and applause yet, headlined by the Weasley twins chanting, "We got Neville!" Nor did he catch Draco's disappointed look.

He sat to watch the rest of the sorting, eager and nervous to see where Draco would end up. And sure enough, the next name called was:

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Suddenly the hall became quiet again, but was filled with whispers, much like it had been for Neville's sorting. Neville could hear the Weasley twins muttering darkly, and saw Hermione's expression turn a bit fearful. Gemma D'Avis, on Hermione's other side, snarled something unintelligible. For his part, Neville didn't take his eyes off his friend. It took a surprisingly long time, nearly two minutes until…

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat called.

Barely anyone clapped, as Draco made his way to the Slytherins. Even at the Slytherin table, applause was short and forced, which Neville again didn't totally understand but knew it had something to do with Draco's father in prison. Only a few people were really clapping, Neville observed: Ariadne, the staff table, and, of course, himself. As the clapping quickly died down and Professor McGonagall called out the next name, he found the incredulous eyes of Hermione, Seamus Finnegan, and Gemma D'Avis on him.

"What?" he asked, annoyed, before turning his attention to the sombrero, completely missing a few names.

Now the sorting flew by, Neville occasionally catching the names as he focused on Draco, who'd sat beside Ariadne looking like he'd been kicked in the ribs.

Mubarak…Ortistle … a pair of twins, Patil and Patil… Pendrake…and then-

"Potter, Harry!"

Neville's attention jumped sharply to the front, where the messy haired, green-eyed wizard that had been so incredibly rude on the train approached the stool with a swagger. Neville thought with dread, _please don't let him be in-_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat had shouted Harry's house before even dipping over his forehead. With a broad smile, Harry put the hat down and sauntered over to the clapping Gryffindor table. Neville was in shock, gaping at Harry with an open mouth as he sat down. He shook his head, trying to focus on the sorting as Stephen Soresby was made the newest Ravenclaw, but he couldn't help bemoaning the fact that he and Draco were in separate houses and the rude boy from the train would be in his house for seven years.

His stomach growled, and he watched thankfully as the last of the first-years were assigned to their houses.

Dean Thomas came to sit beside Harry at the Gryffindor table, Lisa Turpin became a Ravenclaw, and Ronald Weasley was made a Gryffindor.

"Well done, mate! And Merlin, the twins really did it! Brilliant night for the Weasleys, I'd say!"

Harry thumped Ron on his back when the gangly redhead sat down, while the mischievious Weasley twins shot identical grins in his direction. Neville rolled his eyes, barely seeing that Blaise Zabini became a Slytherin. It was just his luck to be in the house with the two boys from the train that caused all that trouble.

His stomach suddenly rumbled: Neville realized how hungry he was, longing for a leftover pastry or chocolate from the Hogwarts Express.

"Welcome!"

Neville directed his attention to the high table, where an old, grandfatherly looking wizard had stood up. He could only guess that this was the famous headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and based on the man's long silver hair, half moon glasses, and deep purple robes emblazoned with silver stars, Neville felt he had prematurely judged Minister Fudge for odd dress sense, when clearly it was the norm for wizarding adults in England.

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

"Thank you!" The wizard swept back into his seat as everyone clapped and cheered. Neville wasn't sure if it was appropriate to laugh at the wizard's odd words. He caught the words of the pompous sounding (and Weasley-looking) prefect down the table, addressing a question of Gemma's.

"No, don't worry. The man's a genius! A touch eccentric, but certainly not mad."

At the other end of the table, Harry Potter gave a knowing look to Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas.

"He's barking mad, my parents have been friends with him for decades. But he is quite a wizard, greatest one alive, certainly!"

Hermione Granger politely passed a dish to Neville, who had been looking at the bewitched sky of the Great Hall.

"Potatoes, Neville?"

The boy's jaw dropped as the dishes along the table were now filled up with food. He didn't recognize some of the dishes, as he supposed they were of distinctly British origin. He reached for a large roll, buttering it heavily with bread. Neville thought with some regret about the meals at Valhalla Oscar had raved about… what he wouldn't give to be next to his cousin eating fårikål, smørbrød, gravlaks, fiskeboller, pinnekjøtt and mashed rutabaga, rømmegrøt, fjord trout pizza, and sampling new Nordic dishes from Sweden, Finland, Denmark, and Iceland.

Pulling himself from his longing for familiar foods, Neville spooned a few boiled potatoes, sausages, and roast beef onto his plate. He tuned out Hermione's dreadfully boring conversation with the presumably Weasley prefect ("I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult-"; "You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing-"), Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown's frightened squeals upon seeing the not exactly headless Gryffindor ghost's patented head flip, and the boisterous boasting by Ron Weasley about his brother's pranking skills to the delight of Dean Thomas and Harry Potter.

"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat and everyone became quiet once again.

"Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for his or her House team should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Neville looked quizzically at the Headmaster, while some of his fellow Gryffindors chuckled slightly, trailing off as they considered whether the Headmaster was serious.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Groans from some of the older students told Neville this was not a favorite part of the Sorting Feast.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

The school lumbered through the song, Neville humming along to an off key tune of "Ja, vi elsker", the Norweigan national anthem. At the end, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march, the old headmaster conducting their last bits with his wand.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

Nevllle rose from his seat, cast a regretful look at Ariadne and Draco getting up with the Slytherin students, and followed the rest of the first years led by Weasley-looking prefect out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Neville was tired, stifling a yawn from the food and the travel, but kept moving in the mass of Gryffindors until at the very end of the corridor, they reached a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said.

"Caput Draconis," said the prefect, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.

The prefect directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one of the towers — Neville, Harry, Ron, Dean, and Seamus found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up.

Seamus was snoring almost instantaneously, as his bed was closest to the entrance. Ron, Harry, and Dean moved off to their beds, also yawning and looking altogether sluggish and tired. Neville found the bed with his trunk, and with a general goodnight to the room, unceremoniously feel asleep on his bed.

Neville did have a very strange dream his first night at Hogwarts. And Neville typically was a sleep through the night kind of person, the better to combat Oscar's loud snores down the hall. In the dream, he was wearing the sombrero, which kept talking to him, telling him he had made a mistake by coming to Hogwarts and should have gone to Valhalla, because it would be dangerous for him here. Neville asked the sombrero why it was so dangerous but never got a straight answer; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there was Harry Potter and a few other boys he couldn't quite make out, laughing at him as he struggled with it — then Potter turned into Grandmother Longbottom, who told him Hogwarts was his destiny and his downfall, and laughed imperiously until the laugh became high and cold — there was a burst of green light and Neville woke with a start.

He rolled over and tried to fall asleep again. But he was kept awake by the dream that Hogwarts was dangerous. He didn't know what to make of it, but he tried to put it out of his mind, until eventually his breathing evened out and he fell back to sleep.


	8. Gryffindors and Slytherins

_**AN: Thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing. Just to be clear, this is an AU fic… I do not own Harry Potter, I'm not Rowling, and I'm just working with a basic what-if premise and moving forward. Most of the major changes I will explain in the fic at some point, but if you don't like fics with changes from canon set in an AU universe, then I wouldn't recommend reading mine. I try to ground my universe in canon, but I extrapolate and project what might have happened if something was different. You're welcome to disagree with me and the ideas I present, and I'll try to flesh out what I can without detracting from my story.**_

_**With regard to Harry Potter, the only person that we've seen Harry be particularly nasty to in this fic is Draco Malfoy (and Neville a bit). Yes, Lily Evans Potter is Harry's mum, but I'd venture that the combined influence of James and Sirius would have strongly brought out his anti-Slytherin side, especially at a young age when he doesn't know any better. And to him currently, Malfoy represents Slytherin, which equals the Death Eaters, which equals irredeemable evil. But I have plans for Harry. And no, I won't be forgetting he's Lily's son too.**_

_**It's early in my universe to have people pegged. Neville, Harry, Draco, Ariadne and all the characters I play with have to navigate their Houses and the whole of Hogwarts. They're all schoolchildren, and (hopefully, but I'm not telling) they will grow and change and mature over the course of this year and all of their Hogwarts years (assuming I write more fics!) **_

_**Now, onward with the story! I was pledging to myself to update in April: now I have!**_

* * *

On the morning after the Sorting, Neville woke up a full hour before the rest of his housemates. He hurriedly freshened up, changed into his robes, and carried his puppy down to the Great Hall. Vali would be fed and looked after by Hagrid during the day, and would be a companion of sorts to the man's giant boarhound. These were the conditions Dumbledore had set with Grandmother Longbottom in order for Neville to bring his dog to Hogwarts, and Neville wanted to make sure Vali was in good hands.

He sat at the Gryffindor table, idly eating some toast and stroking Vali's fur, when Hagrid came up and smiled widely at him.

"An' yer Neville Longbottom," the giant man said happily. "Yeh look a lot like yer mum, but there's summat o' Frank in yeh, I can see that."

"Thanks," the boy stammered. "And thanks for taking care of Vali."

The man waved it off, as though it were nothing. He whistled, and Vali immediately perked up in Neville's arms. Then the man was walking, and the intelligent Finnish Lapphund knew enough to follow Hagrid out of the Great Hall and onto the grounds.

After Hagrid had left, Neville could barely finish his breakfast. The Norweigan transplant was excited and nervous: he'd been waiting for a year to go to wizarding school, and though it certainly wasn't Valhalla, he could still look forward to it all the same.

His first class at Hogwarts was Herbology with the Hufflepuff first-years, headed by a dumpy, squat witch called Professor Sprout. She took them outdoors to Greenhouse 1, where the species for lower years were. They stopped outside the door to the greenhouse, where the professor launched into an overview of Herbology, its purposes and practices, and a general outline of the curriculum for their first year. Neville paid attention closely: Herbology was one of his mother and Aunt Clare's favorite subjects, and based on his own love for their garden in Norway, he suspected it would be a favorite of his as well.

"Now, can anyone tell me anything about the umua plant?"

Hermione Granger's hand shot in the air. Neville raised his a few seconds later, but Professor Sprout had already called on the girl.

"The umua plant is a marine magical plant, growing mainly in mangrove forests. It's cultivated mostly for its root, which is used in a variety of potions. It flowers twice annually, and it attracts the more beneficial insects."

"Excellent, take five points to Gryffindor. Now, it's extremely difficult to harvest umua root, mainly because the plants are very strong minded. Your first task will be to familiarize yourself with the mangrove forest currently being housed in Greenhouse 3, and each Gryffindor and Hufflepuff will pair with someone from the other house to work on a plant."

She opened the doors, and Neville was awestruck. Even though she said there was a mangrove forest in the greenhouse, seeing it, smelling it, feeling the humidity of the ecosystem in a building in northern Scotland… he couldn't help but marvel at it and all the possibilities of plants he'd come to know at Hogwarts.

The Gyrffindors and Hufflepuffs quickly filed into Greenhouse 3's swampy entrance. A row of tall wading boots in various sizes, colors, and patterns were lined up at the entrance. Neville picked out a navy pair with a pattern of orange Kneazles batting at string.

Seeing his classmates pair up, he walked over to a clearing of umua plants and stood next to a Hufflepuff, a tall, thin boy with long, shaggy blond hair. The boy shook his hand eagerly.

"I'm Wilmer Pendrake, and I see you're Neville Longbottom. Good to meet you."

Neville and Wilmer barely talked the rest of the class, concentrating on how to get the deeply rooting plants out of the soil to harvest the roots. It was tough work, but no more difficult in his opinion than some of the weeding and growing he usually did in the summer.

In the end, he managed to coax the plant into parting with some root, by humming and talking quietly to the plant all class. As Neville quietly soothed the plant, Wilmer cut a sample of the root carefully away. A beaming Professor Sprout gave Neville and Wilmer ten points each to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. He thought he saw Hermione Granger glare at him after class, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

His next class was with Professor McGonogall for Transfiguration. Teaching the appropriate wand movement, the class was instructed to each try and change their match into a needle. Neville's match stubbornly remained a match, no matter how hard he willed it to change. Most his fellow Gryffindors weren't much better.

By the end of class, Hermione Granger had managed to turn hers silver and pointy, though still a match, while Harry Potter had changed it completely into a needle. She earned five points from McGonogall, while he earned ten, and out of the corner of his eye, Neville swore he saw Hermione glare at Potter as well.

The entire week was Neville's first foray into British magical education, and it was slightly surprising, as well as somewhat of a disappointment. He found himself enjoying Herbology and Charms, as he was interested and quite liked cheerful Professor Sprout and the excitably knowledgeable Professor Flitwick. He was still mildly in fear and awe of his Head of House, and Transfiguration he thought was truly difficult but it was still a good class.

History of Magic was quite a poor course, taught by ghostly Professor Binns who droned on repetitively about random goblin uprisings in British history. He had been looking forward to History, as he knew little about the history of magic in Britain, and it was one of Oscar's favorite classes at Valhalla as Neville recalled his cousin waxing on about it:

_"We've studied the early part of the Golden Age of Magic in first year, and now we're getting to Ragnarok. Professor Kjærgaard knows her history, but the best part is that she is has such incredible skill with besvergelstemme - she's a certified Magihistorian and has a Mastery of Magical Storytelling. So everything comes to life when she uses the besvergelstemme, the voice magics... it's like we've actually experienced the Golden Age for ourselves!" _

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a similar letdown, not least because Professor Quirrell seemed to be afraid of his own shadow and had them simply read their textbooks all class. Astronomy was fairly boring, and useless in Neville's opinion. He knew that at Valhalla, Astronomy was offered as an elective course to second year students and above, and according to Oscar, only students who were on a Divination track, and occasionally a Magical-Muggle Interdisciplinary track chose to pick up the course (the Valhalla Institute was unique in Europe for its Magical-Muggle Interdisciplinary Studies program: in fact, and a handful of European Space Agency astronauts were actually Valhalla graduates.)

He had most of his classes just with Gryffindor, and so far he had mixed feelings about his housemates in his year, as well as the older Gryffs. He'd been nearly accosted on the first day of classes ("Do you remember anything about You-Know-Who?" "Let's see your scar!" "Can you speak English?" "'Course he can't, he's one of them foreign types.") and there hadn't been any letup in the common room that night until the Weasley prefect - Percy, he recalled - had finally forced everyone to disband, as they were disturbing the more studious members of the house, namely himself and Hermione Granger.

The first year girls were alright. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were terrible gigglers and found something silly about nearly everything, Gemma D'Avis and Iris Archimmel mainly kept to themselves and were slightly standoffish, and Hermione Granger was probably the most well-read person Neville had ever met, who had memorized every textbook and books not even part of the curriculum, but also one of the most irritating. He decided that she would glare at anyone, regardless of House or year, if she felt like they were besting her in class.

Of the Gryffindor male Firsties, Neville liked Dean Thomas best. He was a nice, well-meaning sort of bloke, Muggleborn and curious about the wizarding world, but adapting swiftly. Seamus Finnegan was certainly funny, but Neville couldn't take anything he said seriously. Then there was Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The two were inseparable, fond of mischief and mayhem - rumor was they were _this close _to a full-on prank war with Ron's older brothers, the Weasley Twins - but they were also very charming and friendly, and while Harry had already gained a reputation of something of a Transfigurations prodigy, Ron Weasley had bested all of the first, second, _and _third year Gryffindors at wizard's chess in an impromptu tournament in the common room. Overall, they were extremely well-liked. For his part, Neville had not forgotten the incident on the _Hogwarts Express,_ nor had Harry and Ron. The boys were cordial, but kept their distance from each other.

His final class of the week was Friday afternoon Double Potions in the dungeons of the castle, something he was greatly looking forward to. It was his only class with the Slytherins, and he was excited to see Draco for the first time since the Sorting. Walking into the classroom ahead of his fellow Gryffindors, he saw that all the Slytherins had taken up seats on the right side of the room. He caught sight of Ariadne talking quietly to a blonde girl with ice blue eyes with a Slytherin tie. He found Draco alone at a table at the rear of the room.

"Hey!" Neville called out brightly, dropping his books into the other seat amidst scandalized and affronted looks from the Gryffindors, and dark glares and confused stares from the Slytherins.

"I'm glad we have this class together at least."

Draco managed to grin back. "Me too."

The hook nosed teacher, Professor Snape, swooped in, robes billowing behind him. The entire group of Slytherins and Gryffindors were silent immediately.

Snape read the roll aloud as other teacher's had done, but had odd responses to a few of the names, in Neville's opinion. When Snape said Ariadne's name, with faint distaste, he looked at her closely. Ariadne looked straight back at the professor until the man continued reading the roll.

At Neville's own name, Snape smirked slightly.

"Neville Longbottom, ah yes… our new… _celebrity_."

Neville flushed, but Snape looked from him to his Draco, and said nothing more. Draco's name he said with some fondness, although the boy himself seemed less than pleased.

As he spat Harry's name, he gave the boy a deadly look. Potter glared defiantly back.

When he finished the roll, Snape spoke in mysterious tones about the nature of Potions. Neville was intimidated by his air and still trying to make sense of what he perceived to be odd relationships between the professor and some of the students. His attention was sharply called back into the classroom as the monologue ended, and Snape called out suddenly:

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry's eyes widened, while Hermione leaped from her seat with her hand waving furiously in the air.

"Uh, I don't know. Sir."

Snape smirked evilly. "Typical Gryffindor, didn't even bother to open a book before coming. Mr. Zabini, care to enlighten the more behind members of the class?"

"Draught of Living Death, sir," replied the black Slytherin boy lazily.

"Ten points to Slytherin," Snape responded.

Harry flushed. The Slytherins broke into small giggles.

"Weasley, shall we see what you remember from the text, or if you're as empty-headed as your seatmate? Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Ron paled as Hermione waved her hand even more vigorously in the air.. "I-I dunno, sir."

The professor looked nastily him. "That is a fairly basic question, Weasley. Miss Black, are you comfortable with basic questions? Or do they elude you as well?"

Neville watched Ariadne straighten up at her desk and look her professor in the eye.

"A bezoar is found in the stomach of a goat, Professor."

The professor looked at her inscrutably. "Five points to Slytherin."

Snape turned to the Gryfindor side of the classroom and raised an eyebrow. Ron Weasley was now nearly as red as his hair, and Harry was still flushed, although based on his twitching hands, it was now in indignation rather than embarrassment.

"Rather than bravery, has the sorting hat decided that Gryffindor is now the house of excess stupidity?"

The Slytherins were full on now: Pansy Parkinson was doubled over in her chair, and Blaise Zabini was laughing loudly with the two large boys named Crabbe and Goyle. _He's not really that funny_, Neville thought, _they're just having a go at our house._ Neville felt better when he glanced out the corner of his eye at Draco, not laughing but looking warily around him. They made eye contact, and the two boys seemed to share their confusion in a glance. The Gryffindors meanwhile were glaring at Snape, though no one voiced the injustice of it aloud. The Hogwarts rumor mill ensured that first-year students knew well in advance just what the Potions professor was capable of.

Snape's gaze turned to Draco and Neville, the only two members of the class neither laughing nor scowling.

"Longbottom," he said silkily, and the whole room stilled and looked at Neville. "Can the hero of the wizarding world redeem his house?"

Neville didn't say a word. He was completely off balance and totally afraid to embarrass himself in front of this professor, and in front of his classmates. He hadn't known the answers to the two questions Snape had asked Harry and Ron, and he wasn't optimistic about his chances this time either. He looked tentatively up at the professor, ignoring Draco's nervous look and Hermione's crouched position, the better to shoot her hand and whole body into the air.

"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

And then Snape, the Slytherins, and the Gryffindors were all surprised, as something occurred in a first-year Potions class that had not occurred in the entirety of Snape's tenure: someone smiled slightly at one of Snape's questions.

"Nothing, they're two names for the same plant. It's also known as aconite, sir."

The whole class just goggled at him.

"Indeed, Longbottom," Snape said softly. "Now, why aren't the rest of you copying this down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. As Neville reached for his own, he became aware that the professor had not awarded any points to Gryffindor.

Snape glared at the students scribbling hastily, before sweeping back to the front of the room. He waved his wand, and brewing instructions appeared on the board in front of the class. It wasn't a particularly complicated potion - just a cure for boils - but the work was gruelling and required a great deal of attention. In fact, it was obvious to Neville by the end of class, Potions was probably the most dangerous class at Hogwarts. Ron Weasley had scalded his hands when he inserted the snake fangs, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas had melted down the top lip of their cauldron, and Tracey Davis had accidently gotten dust from crushed dried nettles into her eye, causing the entire left side of her face to swell and purple dramatically. Three people had left for the hospital wing before class ended, and the remaining first years had results that only slightly resembled the boil cure potion they were supposed to be creating.

As Draco and Neville cleaned their station at the end of class, having made it through Potions without any incidents, Ariadne walked by swiftly. A bit of parchment fell out of her copy of _Magical Drafts and Potions_, which she ignored as she swept out of the dungeon. Draco picked it up, and unfolded the crumpled parchment.

_D & N,_

_Meet me in a half hour by the lake. I'll get supplies for some supper._

_A. B._

Neville glanced at Draco. "I don't have anything to do, besides homework I suppose. It would be nice to catch up with you lot, hear how your week's been."

The Slytherin nodded. "It would be interesting to hear how you're doing in Gryffindor, and I'm sure Ariadne has things to tell us as well."

"So, I'll run up to the tower and then meet you in the Great Hall and-"

"Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Malfoy," and both boys turned with some fear at the advancing Potions professor. They had completely forgotten they were still in the classroom, in fact, they were the _only _students left. Neville gulped involuntarily, while Draco balled up Ariadne's note in his hand and paled further.

"Yes, Professor?"

Snape sneered at Neville, then looked directly at Draco.

"Your potion was satisfactory, but I expect better from you, Draco," and Neville was surprised that the man's voice was simply stern, rather than hostile and nasty. The professor looked coldly at Neville and then back to Draco. "No matter the caliber of your partner, only the highest quality work will suffice."

"I know sir," Draco replied, "We'll do much better next time." Snape raised an eyebrow and Draco cast his eyes down to the floor. There was a momentary awkward pause, and Neville wasn't sure if perhaps he should say something as well, but then Snape continued.

"Class has ended. I suggest that you make haste and enjoy what remains of your afternoon." Neville nearly would have let his jaw drop to the floor, had Draco not taken the initiative to stamp firmly, but not painfully, on his foot.

"Yes, you're right, Professor. We were just leaving."

He gathered both their books, nodded to the Potions professor, and half led, half pushed Neville out the classroom door.

"Not here," Draco muttered before Neville could get out a shocked word. "Just meet me and Ariadne out by the lake, I'll tell you then."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Neville was strolling onto the grounds of Hogwarts, hurriedly looking for Draco and Ariadne. He found them on a green and silver blanket next to a rather large cluster of purple fanged geranium - Neville had gotten a nasty bite from one when he was six, and subsequently was quite good at identifiying the carnivourous plants from their docile, dainty cousins. Skirting the flowers, he plopped down on the blanket. There was a veritable feast spread out before him. Turnovers, Cornish pasties, assorted biscuits, a few apples and oranges, a bunch of grapes, bags of Canbuxford Crisps in flavours like Marmite & Cheese and Clementine & Maple Syrup, deviled eggs, various sandwiches... he barely knew where to begin!

Ariadne was sitting serenely with her legs folded underneath her, idly munching on an apple. Draco, well, Neville wasn't quite sure _what _the young Malfoy boy was doing. He appeared to be squatting near the edge of the blanket, but taking care not to touch it or any of the treats. Neville blinked at him quizzically, then looked at Ariadne.

"Where'd you get all the food?"

"Kitchens," the girl waved impatiently. "Long story, but I'll show you the entrance if we ever walk by."

"Took you long enough to get here," Draco observed.

"Gryffindor Tower is a ways from the dungeons." Neville looked at Draco again, then at Ariadne. "What's with him?"

The girl sighed and tossed her black hair. "He thinks we're doing something distinctly _Muggle_, and refuses to fully commit to a nice afternoon among friends."

"Well it is _Muggle_," Draco said crossly. "I know it, this is that pinky-kicking thing you're always doing with the Potters."

Ariadne rolled her eyes and swallowed her bite of apple.

"For Merlin's sake, it's _picknicking,_ not pinky-kicking, and as a matter of fact wizards do this as well."

Draco turned sharply to Neville as though demanding whether or not that was true. The boy smiled slightly.

"Wizards and witches do this often where I live, especially when the weather is good. It's a nice way to enjoy the sunshine."

The pale Slytherin seemed slightly mollified: though he still neglected to sit on the blanket and remained in a crouch, he did grab a sandwich from the basket and started eating.

"So how is Slytherin? Are your housemates nice? Why is Professor Snape so... mean? But why does he like you so much?"

The last question was directed at Draco, but before the pale boy could swallow and respond, Neville was struck with another thought.

"And why does he seem to hate you so much?"

Ariadne looked at him in mock despair.

"He's got so much to learn, doesn't he Draco?"

Her cousin shrugged, nibbling the corner crust off of his sandwich.

"Well, to start with, I imagine he rather dislikes me because my father was his mortal enemy when they went to Hogwarts together. The only person Snape might hate more is James Potter, Harry's dad."

Neville looked at Ariadne with wide eyes, while reaching for a turnover. "They were all in the same year?"

"Yup," the girl nodded. "James is my godfather, actually, like my dad is Harry's. They were best friends, along with Remus Lupin, and they were always exchanging hexes and curses with Snape in school. In fact, there was one time my dad nearly had Snape killed." Her face darkened considerably as Draco and Neville exchanged an astonished glance mid-chew.

"My mum swore me to secrecy on the details, and it's better you don't know. If I told you, and there was the slight chance Snape ever got wind of it-" Ariadne shuddered, and not for effect. "Yes, it's better you don't know."

Neither boy looked like they were willing to simply let the story die, but Ariadne shifted topics quickly.

"Neville, my mum told me that _your_ mum was in my dad's year as well. Although, your mum was a Hufflepuff, and never had much to do with either the Marauders-"

"The what?"

"It's what my dad and his friends called themselves," Ariadne explained. "She didn't interact with them a great deal at Hogwarts, much less Professor Snape, although she was very good friends with Harry's mother, and she and my mum got along well."

There was a beat, and, the tale of Snape's brush with death forgotten, Neville asked before he could lose his nerve,

"Was my dad in their year too?"

Ariadne smiled. "He was a Gryffindor like them, but ahead of them by a year, and Head Boy besides. According to my mum, they all got on much better after the Marauders graduated, and matured."

Draco snorted into his sandwich.

"As much as they could mature, I suppose," Ariadne amended. "My dad often still behaves like an overgrown schoolboy, especially when with my godfather, and seeing as they're both Aurors, it's nearly daily."

Neville was thoughtful. He was curious about his parents' Hogwarts days, it seemed to give him more connection to the castle. He couldn't believe that his mum was friendly with Ariadne's mum, or that the reason Snape was so rude to Harry and Ariadne was because he went to school with their fathers. He glanced at Draco, who was still snorting somewhat.

"Were your parents in the same year as my mum and Ariadne's dad?"

The question wiped the smirk off of Draco's face. He seemed to hunch even more in his squat over the blanket. After a minute, Neville was terribly afraid he'd offended the boy. Just when he was ready to change the topic, Draco began to respond, haltingly at first.

"My fath- my father was not, he was a seventh year when they began school. My mother was in the same year as Ariadne's mum, though."

Ariadne took up from there. "Yes, Draco's mum was a Slytherin, and my mum was in Ravenclaw. I suppose they had a fair number of classes together and became good friends. I think that's how my mum knew Snape, and I assume he hates me less than Harry only for that reason and I was Sorted into his House. And Professor Snape loves Draco because Draco is his godson."

Everyone seemed to know everyone in the British magical world! He supposed it was because Norway had larger populations of witches, wizards and magical beings, and were generally well dispersed over the country.

"He's your godfather?"

The pale boy looked away. "Professor Snape is my godfather, yes. He knew my mother in school, and he was a - well, he knew my father as well. He comes round every now and then to see me and Mum, but that's it." The last bit came out somewhat oddly, as though Draco were clenching his teeth while saying the words.

"It's all very insular, isn't it?" Neville was trying to understand, but it came out a bit unkindly. Draco bristled slightly, but Ariadne shot her cousin a look.

"It certainly can be," she replied.

Draco suddenly stood up from his squat and dusted off his robes.

"I've got a letter to finish to Mum." Without so much as a wave, the Slytherin headed back in the direction of the castle. Neville watched him go, wondering if he had said too much.

"He's had a tough time of it." Neville turned back to Ariadne, whose blue-gray eyes were fixed on her cousin's retreating form.

"In Slytherin, it's tricky. Two of the boys in his year, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, follow Theodore Nott almost unquestionably, and the three will have nothing to do with Draco. Blaise Zabini is harder to read, but won't upset the status quo."

"Why's that so important?"

"Your position within your year determines your larger position in the House," Ariadne responded. "So since Draco is ignored by those in power as first-years, he's a pariah in the rest of the house as well. It's because he has no family status anymore, and his father is imprisoned. The old supporters of You-Know-Who who are not in prison avoided incarceration by claiming to be under spells, or by bribing the Ministry, my dad told me. So these boys have no ties to Draco, and since his social standing is so poor despite his mother's family, they look down upon him. Removes a potential opponent for power struggles as well."

The boy's head was spinning. He was only worried about turning his match into a needle. Gryffindor didn't have such weird power structures.

"What about you?"

Ariadne smiled.

"Pansy Parkinson is already one of Nott's most vocal admirers. Millicent Bulstrode and Tracey Davis are her answer to Nott's Crabbe and Goyle: neither girl is particularly special, and they have the perfect family background to be followers. Both Daphne Greengrass and I are respected in the year for being from strong and well-known pureblood families, but we are not cultivated as 'friends' since neither of us show any inclination to follow."

Neville absorbed that. So friends for Slytherins were followers? He had to believe that some Snakes had actual friendships, and he asked Ariadne.

"Oh, of course. But most true friendships are only had by those slightly outside the Core, that is, Slytherins without a taste for following or leading within the House. And the majority of those friendships are with similarly minded Slytherins, or with pureblood Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs."

"But not Gryffindors," Neville said sadly.

"Gryffindors tend to see Slytherins as one. And in fairness, Slytherins see Gryffindors the same way. It's hard to break through the conditioned stereotyping. And for Draco, it's worse. The first year Gryffindors, especially Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and that Finnegan guy, have already made it their mission to pick on Draco as much as possible."

"Why?"

"Because they can, I suspect," she said somewhat angrily. "Because his father is a known Death Eater in Azkaban, because no one ever let the old squabbles, feuds, and hatred go after the war, because to them Draco is a sign of everything they've been brought up to despise and to rail against. I've tried reasoning with Potter, since he's practically my cousin as well, and we've known each other since we were born. It hasn't worked. I've defended Draco from them once this week, but Draco wants me to keep out of it, says he'll take care of himself."

Ariadne flushed a bit here, and Neville could see the girl's annoyance and concern for her cousin.

"Well, I think it's good of you to try."

The girl flashed a smile at him again, then took a bite of a biscuit, and moved on to the more innocuous topic of the levitation Charm. He and Ariadne spent a bit more time talking before packing up and returning to the castle, but, as nice as it was, Draco's miserable situation loomed in the back of Neville's mind.

* * *

Neville had nearly no time to ruminate further on the intersecting relatonships between British wizards and witches, and the odd power struggles in Gryffindor and Slytherin, as Flying was scheduled for the following Thursday on the Quidditch Pitch. Naturally, the Gryffindor first years did not pay attention to the notice until late Wednesday evening in the Gryffindor common room.

"Bloody hell! We've got to learn to fly with the Slytherins?" Seamus was whinging at the notice board.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Seamus," Dean said. "Madam Hooch is overseeing everything, so they won't be able to cause trouble."

Harry and Ron didn't say anything, but Neville saw them giving each other excited and devious looks. He was more worried about _them _causing trouble than any Slytherins. Although if there was trouble, it would certainly involve Draco. Neville groaned at the prospect.

Thursday morning, Neville dutifully attended History of Magic and Charms, trying to be attentive and take notes, but his mind was wandering to the prospect of Flying lessons.

As class ended, he moved with tremendous speed to the Great Hall, sitting with a thump at the table, and began to devour whatever food was in front of him. Gemma D'Avis look scandalized, but he didn't have time to care. He needed to catch up with Draco before the flying class, and warn him about - well, he wasn't sure. But at least put him on his guard about Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.

The Slytherin was walking toward the front steps, in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch. Neville had just about caught up to him and was about to intercept him, when a school owl swooped down towards Draco. The pale boy quickly took the letter and parcel in its talons, and the owl flew off promptly, its service rendered.

Neville approached Draco with a small smile.

"A reply from your mum?"

Draco looked up, and nodded. He unwrapped the parcel, revealing a smooth, black sphere the size of an orange. Neville looked at it quizzically. Draco scanned the letter from his mother, first looking for the name of the object.

"It's an orbis exercito,"

"Oh, cool." Neville had heard of, but never seen, an orbis exercito. They were made from onyx, and were enchanted as a portable means to test the effectiveness of one's spellcasting. The orbs were enchanted to absorb whatever spell, curse or jinx was sent its way, and would give off a green glow if done correctly, a blue glow if the pronunciation, movement, or intent and execution needed work. They would then send the curse back to the caster, allowing for practice of dodging or Shield Charms. They were regularly used by hitwizards, Aurors, and duelers in recruitment and training.

Draco was reading more carefully now, and Neville didn't want to bother him, but did certainly want to tell him about the Gryffindors. Before he could open his mouth again, the rest of the first year Gryffindors began to surge in their direction, and Draco quickly excused himself to head towards the pitch. Neville sighed, but waited for his fellow firsties to arrive, then fell in step just behind Iris Archimmel.

By the time the Gryffindors arrived to the well-manicured lawn where the lesson was to be held, the Slytherins were already silently lined up, and twenty broomsticks were arrayed neatly before them. Neville shot a quick look at the Snakes: a thin, reedy looking boy was looking disdainfully at the school brooms lined up. He was flanked by two hulking, ugly first year boys, and Neville assumed that he was Theodore Nott, and the other two were Crabbe and Goyle.

The flying instructor, Madam Hooch, was looking at the Gryffindors impatiently. "What are you waiting around for, you lot?"

The Gryffindors hurriedly lined up, each with one of the old school broomsticks in front of them. Neville noticed the woman's hawk-like yellow eyes scrutinizing each first year.

She directed everyone to stick their hands out and shout up, which everyone did, although everyone's broom did not comply immediately. Neville had had a bit of a time getting his broom to respond, but after his third attempt the broom shot up into his hand. Then the teacher weaved among the students, showing them how to properly mount the broom and grip the handle. She spent quite a bit of time with the Muggleborn students, especially Hermione Granger, and Neville heard her tell Harry Potter he had a naturally perfect grip. Neville refrained from rolling his eyes.

Finally, they were directed to kick off, rise up slowly and come down, but before Madam Hooch had blown her whistle, one of Theodore Nott's bodyguards had panicked, shot up into the air about twelve feet. He then began streaking towards the ground, and Draco had to jump sideways towards the Gryffindors to avoid being squashed. The unfortunate boy - Neville couldn't tell if it was Crabbe or Goyle - then crash landed back on the ground with a loud, sickening crunch.

Madam Hooch bustled over to the boy, her face white as a sheet. She waved her wand over him, muttered to herself, and stood the Slytherin up. He himself looked no worse for wear, other than being deathly pale, but his right foot or ankle seemed to be broken, as he was placing all of his weight on his left.

The woman helped the hobbling boy to the hospital wing, but not before assuring the first years that if they moved or touched their brooms while she was gone, they would be expelled from Hogwarts.

As soon as she had left, the Gryffindors broke out in small chuckles quietly. Neville made his way over to Draco.

"You ok, Draco?"

"Yes," the blonde said. "But I just barely missed Crabbe. I don't think he can be any more incompetent, pity for Nott his followers are so useless beyond their size."

"What's this?"

Both boys turned at the sound of the voice. Ron Weasley had walked over and reached down to pick up a glittering ball on the grass. As he held it up, Neville recognized Draco's orbis exercito, which must have fallen out of the boy's pocket in the attempt to get out of the path of the plummeting Crabbe. He could see Ron's eyebrows rise with interest, and tried to stop Weasley before the situation spiralled out of control.

"Weasley, it isn't your property. Give it back to Draco."

"Why's Malfoy ball _your_ business, Longbottom?" Harry Potter had come over, frowning at his fellow Gryffindor. "And besides, he's only looking at it. What's the harm?"

"It's mine," Draco broke in, "hand it over, Weasley."

Harry looked the orb at more closely.

"How'd you get yourself an orbis exercito, Malfoy? And what are you doing with one anyway?"

"They aren't against the rules, Potter," Neville tried to stick up for Draco, though he was improvising, "so just give it back to Draco."

Ron pretended to not hear Neville, and turned with a thoughtful air to his black-haired friend.

"Whatever it is, it's not exactly the size of a Snitch or a Quaffle, but it'd be good for a quick toss before Madam Hooch gets back. What'd you say, Harry?"

"Give it back!" Neville and Draco chorused. By now, the rest of the Slytherin and Gryffindor was watching the power play between the two sets of boys. Neville could see Ariadne watching with a frown, but remembered her pledge to let Draco fight his own battles with Harry.

Harry thumped Ron on the back, and took the orbis into his own hand. "Good idea, mate!" And before Draco or Neville could say a word, he had kicked off and was airborne on his broom with tremendous speed and skill. The whole group of students collectively held their breath; the first move had been made.

"Harry! You'll get us all in trouble!" Hermione Granger's screeches momentarily distracted everyone, but the Slytherin angrily mounted his broom and took off in pursuit, flying as well as Harry had.

Ron made to mount his broom as well, until Hermione pointed her wand at the boy.

"Don't even try it, Ronald Weasley. I've learned all our first year coursebooks by heart, and I'll put the full Body-Bind on you if you even_ think_ of getting on that broom."

The redhead scowled, and his face crimsoned until it nearly matched his hair.

"Are you some kind of mental, Slytherin dark wizard lover?"

"No, I am not! I simply think Potter is bound to lose our House some points with his shenanigans, and don't think we need to lose any more!"

Hermione's bushy hair was getting bushier as she yelled back at Weasley. Neville looked up in the air: Harry and Draco were circling each other slowly. He _had _to get up there and help his friend, or at least, the boy he wanted to be his friend.

The boy stole another look at the Granger-Weasley row, and with a burst of courage he didn't really know he had, Neville kicked off and was airborne on the broom before anyone could pull a wand on him.

"NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!" Hermione's shriek resounded through the air, but he tuned it out. He didn't really like flying - he'd had somewhat of a fear of brooms after a fall from Oscar's toy broom when he was five - but to his surprise, he found that he could handle it fairly well as he made his way toward Harry and Draco.

"Not much of a flier are you, Longbottom."

"I made it here, Potter, and I'm good enough to keep up with you on these school brooms." Neville looked evenly at the boy, then cast his gaze on Draco. He looked ashen and close to tears, though his face was scrunched into a scowl and he had his eyes glued to Harry. _What could Harry have said to him?_

"Just give Draco back his orbis, Harry," Neville sighed.

"I don't think I've quite finished with it yet," Harry taunted, throwing the onyx sphere from hand to hand on the broom.

"There are two of us up here, and I don't think Weasley's coming to save your neck anytime soon." Draco had found his voice at last.

Harry looked at the two boys, then back down to the Quidditch pitch. He smirked.

"Fair enough, it's yours, if you can catch it!" And with that the orbis exercito was thrown high in the air and plummeting back to the ground, while Harry flew swiftly back toward the Gryffindors.

"Draco!" Neville looked on with horror as the pale Slytherin dropped into a sharp dive, gathering speed and dodging branches, and he could hear the cries from the pitch below. Neville eased his broom back towards the ground, his eyes never removing themselves from the streaking Malfoy. When Draco stretched out his hand and caught the orbis exercito, before rolling in air and landing with a small bump on the grass, Neville let out the breath he'd been holding and landed himself. Crisis averted.

"Mr. Malfoy. _Mr_ _Longbottom_."

Nevermind.

* * *

Draco and Neville did not look anywhere but the ground as a livid Professor Snape demanded they follow him, and they obeyed, shuffling along to certain doom. It was good that they didn't look up, or they would have seen the triumphant faces of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley (and some of the other Gryffindors, who slapped Harry's back at the great entertainment), Hermione's indignant fury which was boiling over, and Ariadne's stricken face watching her cousin and The-Boy-Who-Lived hauled off by the scariest teacher in Hogwarts and probably due for immediate expulsion.

Neville moved through the castle following the Potions Master. He supposed being expelled would not be the _worst _thing in the world for him. He could go home, and enroll at Valhalla with Oscar, and stop feeling so out of place and alone. As he thought that, a brief spark of hope and happiness ignited in his chest, but it was quickly doused as he thought about the confirmed disappointment of Grandmother Longbottom, and that despite his initial reluctance, he was beginning to feel more comfortable at Hogwarts. There was also his fledgling friendships with Draco and Ariadne, and learning more about his parents and their experiences in the same school. His heart sank once again.

Surprisingly though, instead of the dungeons, or Dumbledore's office wherever that was, Snape led them back through the castle and then outside yet again, to the greenhouses on the opposite side of the castle from the Quidditch pitch.

As they neared the door to Greenhouse 3, Snape fixed the two of them with a dangerous look.

"Do not move, and do not speak while I am inside."

The professor didn't wait for assent, but turned and entered the greenhouse. Neville was desperately curious, and afraid, at what Snape was going to come out of the greenhouse with, and his mind whirled with possibilities. _Perhaps we'll have to fight our way out of Devil's Snare without wands? _All his anxious theories were dashed when the professor emerged swiftly with an older Slytherin student who was broad-shouldered and dark-haired, and looked nastily at the two first-years before him.

"Follow me," Snape said silkily, and the three boys followed the man back into the castle to an empty classroom on the same level as the dungeons. With a wave of his wand, Snape closed the door, and regarded the two first year students very seriously. He spent a whole minute studying Draco's face, then turned to Neville and stared at him as well. Neville could only hold the gaze so long before he had to look away, he was so anxious and frightened.

"You will both serve detention with Filch every evening next week for that idiotic display and blatant disregard of rules."

Neville expected Snape to go on about expulsion or something even more nasty and horrible, but he was surprised when he turned to Draco.

"Malfoy, this is Marcus Flint. Flint, I've found you a Seeker."

Marcus Flint's face went from surly to flummoxed. Draco, meanwhile, had brightened up considerably upon learning they weren't being expelled, and stood straight.

"This is Draco Malfoy," Snape's voice had a bite of impatience to it, as though he expected the Quidditch captain to take his meaning much more swiftly. "I have just had the _great_ fortune to see Mr. Malfoy pull off a fifty-foot dive on a school broom, caught the orbis that you see in his hand, and pulled out with barely a scratch on him."

Now Flint showed some interest, although he looked at the first year skeptically. Draco's face was mask-like as he stared back at the older boy.

"By all means, test him yourself at the Quidditch pitch. Loathe as I am to compare any Slytherin to a Gryffindor," Snape continued with a disgusted face, "he is far superior to the poor excuses for Seekers we've had in the last few years, winnning the Cup in spite of rather than because of them. The best comparison for his talent would be Charles Weasley."

Now the Quidditch captain smiled predatorily at the first year. "He does have the build for a Seeker, Professor. And if he's as good as you say he is, then we'll win the House Cup again for sure."

"I will speak with the Headmaster, and come up with a way around the first year rule. And I shall see to it that Malfoy receives a decent broom."

Flint looked at Draco. "Saturday evening, on the pitch, seven o'clock."

Malfoy inclined his head.

"Professor," and Flint nodded happily to the Potions Master, then left the classroom.

"Draco, you are also excused, but we will be discussing your lack of judgment later in my office. And I expect stellar marks during your tenure on the Quidditch team or you will answer to me," Snape said in a slightly softer tone. "Now go."

Draco shot a glance at Neville, who was elated for Draco's good fortune but now looked disturbed at having to remain in the classroom with Snape. Alone.

The door closed behind Malfoy. Neville felt his apprenhension bubbling, but forced himself to look up at Snape. The man was looking at him closely, but without the omnipresent sneer.

"Longbottom."

"Sir," the boy replied nervously.

"Explain yourself."

"Sir?"

"I understand that Draco was attempting to recover his property from Mr. Potter," and the professor said the name with a slight snarl, "and while I was unable to punish Mr. Potter since he was planted firmly on the ground with no broom in his hands when I arrived, I am aware of his involvement in the incident. What I am missing thus far is why you felt the need to insert yourself in the situation, and how you came to be on your broom, defying a direct order from Madam Hooch. So you will explain. _Now._"

"Well, you see, it was Weasley who started it, Ron I mean," Neville explained awkwardly. "I tried to ask him to give it back, but he didn't care. And then he threw it to Harry and Harry was up in the air and Draco went after him. And well, I know that they've been bull- I mean, I heard he's been having some problems with them. And it didn't look like anyone else was going to help him get his orbis back, but I thought it was wrong and... and I flew to help him. Because he's my friend- or at least, I want to be friends."

The boy trailed off, speaking the final bit in an undertone that he wasn't sure if Snape had heard. He felt awkward and embarrassed, he hadn't meant to say such things to the Potions professor. There was absolute silence. Neville looked at the ground, not wanting to even chance to see what kind of expression was on Snape's face after that bit of truth came out.

"I see." Neville raised his eyes slightly to see Snape looking at him impassively.

"Well, Longbottom, you should know that a friendship between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin can be extremely difficult to maintain even under normal circumstances. And a friendship between the Boy-Who-Lived and a Malfoy," the professor sneered just slightly, "is all but impossible."

"All the same, sir," and Nevill could hardly believe the voice coming out of his mouth belonged to him, "I want to try."

"Do _try_, Mr. Longbottom. Though don't be surprised if no good comes of it."

The professor's face was unreadable. The final remark was ominous, and seemed to be an ending of sorts to the conversation. Feeling this, Neville tried to imitate Malfoy and Flint by nodding, but only ended up bobbling his head awkwardly at Snape. Flushing slightly, the boy beat a hasty retreat and quickly exited the classroom.

"Hey."

Draco was waiting for him. Neville let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Hey."

"I didn't get a chance to say- well, I wanted to..." the blonde trailed off, before straightening his back and looking at Neville squarely.

"Thank you for flying with me on the pitch."

Neville blushed slightly.

"Er, well it was the right thing to do. Friends stick together, you know?"

Draco was pensive for a moment, then offered a small smile to Neville.

"Yeah. Yes. Friends do."

Neville smiled back.

"Right, now let's go find Ariadne and tell her we're not expelled _and _I made our House Quidditch team!"

* * *

_**AN: Thanks for reading! TBC...**_


	9. Duels and Detentes

_**AN: Delays, delays: it took some significant cajoling and bribing of a younger sibling to get access to a working computer. I apologize for the wait! It's a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get this up and work on the next two chapters which will be pretty long. **_

_**I do not own Harry Potter, story not for commercial use. Parts come from "The Midnight Duel" of PS. Made up names for some members of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing!**_

The incident on the Quidditch pitch spread widely throughout the school, faster than Neville thought possible, and had profound repercussions. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain and Chaser, had indeed tested Draco's skill on Saturday. After five minutes of flying and Snitch spotting exercises, Flint had stormed back toward the castle, gathered the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and put Draco into an immediate tryout against Terrence Higgs, the reserve Seeker from the previous year that had assumed the position would be his. Draco had dramatically outflown Terrence, catching the Snitch nine times out of ten, and the team unanimously approved of Flint's recommendation that Draco be the starting Seeker for Slytherin.

After that, Draco's life improved dramatically in the house and Hogwarts in general. The Slytherin Quidditch team became a lifeline for him. After one of their first practices, Draco gave Neville a complete breakdown of the squad. While Flint was an insane taskmaster, he was a decent bloke at the end of the day, and the Keeper Miles Bletchley was extremely funny. The other Chasers were Adrian Pucey and Romeo Montague. Montague was one of the rare half-bloods in Slytherin, and he'd faced some ostracism from his House before making the Quidditch team. Naturally, he'd developed quite a large chip on his shoulder and was very cold and aloof in general, but more relaxed around his teammates. No one called him Romeo; after he'd hexed two Ravenclaw Muggle-born students unrecognizable for taking the mickey out of his Shakespearean name, everyone had gotten the message and he was only referred to as Montague. Pucey was the only second year on the team, but was the best natural flier the Slytherins had. Draco and Adrian got along well, and Flint had ordered Pucey to get Draco's flying up to his level by date of the first match. A pair of fourth-year students served as Beaters, Brutus Bole and Decimus Derrick, and had killer instincts on the pitch. Off the pitch, the two had very few friends, and were reputed to be somewhat shifty and untrustworthy.

With the support of the Quidditch team, Draco was more fully integrated into his House. The older students no longer ignored him, and his skills endeared him to them… so long as he won their matches of course. Neville and Ariadne both knew how much pressure Draco would eventually be under to win, but for now, they kept silent as to not alarm him.

In the Slytherin first year, the core group of Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode, and Davis remained the same. However, Blaise Zabini had struck up an acquaintance with Malfoy, as had Daphne Greengrass. As Neville had been told by Ariadne, Slytherins certainly understood politics, and Greengrass and Zabini weren't ready to hitch their status to his success, but wanted the option to do so should Draco's fortunes and power rise dramatically in the House.

The little orbis exercito that had started everything was now a regular feature in study sessions that Draco, Ariadne and Neville had instituted after the boys finished serving their detentions with Snape. They'd decided – more that Ariadne had forcefully convinced them, but no matter - to work on their spellwork on the grounds twice a week as practical review, and the orbis exercito helped the sessions dramatically when they hadn't perfected a spell yet and didn't want to cast it on each other. Draco confessed that his mother had sent it to him as a means of improving his skills, to escape the Gryffindor bullies.

"I'm certain Snape wrote to her," he said to them one afternoon scathingly, "seeing as he wouldn't get himself involved personally, but had no qualms about gossiping to my mother. I'm not sure where she got the orbis though… they're- well, they're expensive, and we don't have the Galleons to waste on trifles."

For Neville, the fallout from the incident was both welcome and worrying. On the one hand, it had firmly solidified Draco and Neville's friendship. The two boys were consistent partners in Potions, and found time to study together with Ariadne in the library most nights that Draco didn't have Quidditch practice.

On the other hand, the Gryffindors were furious at the exception made for the young Malfoy, but most of the upper years were also put out with Neville for defending Malfoy, and gave him the silent treatment for quite some time. The older students were equally upset with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley for being the catalyst to the incident and they were also treated coolly for a time. All four of Neville's year-mates were therefore angry at _him, _Potter and Weasley's anger eclipsing everyone else's. The four boys completely ignored Neville, so he cut his time in the Tower short and stayed in the library or on the grounds as often as possible. It was a lonely, isolated existence for about a week, and then the anger and resentment came to a head for Harry and Ron, so ignoring Neville was no longer an option.

It began the evening that Draco received his broomstick. Neville had come to dinner in the Great Hall early as usual, stopping to collect Vali from Hagrid and settling into a seat at the Gryffindor table by himself. Students started to trickle in, most of the Gryffindors sitting a bit aways from Neville. Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean plopped down at the table a few seats down from Neville.

"McGonagall's such a witch," Seamus whined immediately as he spooned shepherd's pie onto his plate.

Dean and Harry both snorted at the half-blood's choice pun, while Ron looked at him cluelessly.

" 'Ell of 'ourse she is, mate," the red-head said as he swallowed some steak and kidney pie.

"A foot of parchment on the importance of Switching Spells as a building block of Transfiguration? In only two nights? It's cruel and unusual punishment, it is. Should write me mam about her, set her straight."

"Well mate, in fairness, you decided of your own accord to mouth off about Hermione Granger," Dean commented.

"He's right, Seamus," Harry said. "What were you on about anyway?"

"I was hungry, okay?" The boys laughed at this statement, and Seamus glared at them defensively.

"What, I was! I didn't see the sense in taking up class time to discuss spells we're not even going to learn until third or fourth year. And my stomach was growling and I just couldn't take hearing her voice anymore!"

"I'm with you," Harry said, still chuckling. "But still, you probably earned that essay by saying the whole topic was 'utterly useless'."

Seamus shot a sharp look at him, but chose to shovel more shepherd's pie in his mouth instead of reply.

"Oi," Ron said suddenly through a full mouth of boiled potatoes, "whas Raco 'ot?"

Deciphering his words through the food, Neville snapped his head to the Slytherin table. Sure enough, the blond boy was surrounded by six large screech owls delivering a long, thin parcel. Neville knew what was in the package, and sneaking a glance at Harry's rapidly darkening scowl, Potter had figured it out too.

"C'mon, let's find out," Harry said getting up from the table, watching as Draco left the Great Hall. Seamus and Ron stood up, each hastily shoveling food in their mouths before bolting after their friend. Dean sighed, but didn't follow.

Neville pushed back from his seat. Ignoring Dean's raised eyebrow, he went in the direction that Potter and his friends had gone, quickly coming up to the three boys somewhat surrounding Draco, Harry gesturing at the blond Slytherin holding the parcel. He could make out the words as he came closer upon the scene.

"…and even if they did put you on the Quidditch team, you're still not allowed to have one. You're a first-year, and first-years are not allowed to have their own broomsticks."

"For your information, Potter," and Draco's tone carried some of the drawling affectation Ariadne had used on the _Hogwarts Express_, "the Headmaster himself has given me a special dispensation for my own broomstick."

He paused, noting the confused look on Ron face.

"That means I'm _exempted_ from the rule, Weasley."

"I _know_ what a dipsensation is, Malfoy," Ron said acidly. Neville tried to repress a snort, but couldn't, and all four boys turned to look at him.

"Of course, Longbottom has to get himself involved," Seamus quipped. Harry gave Neville a cold look, then turned back to Draco.

"We're attracting an audience, and now I want to settle this properly. Wizard's duel, wands only, no contact. Tonight?"

Draco stared stonily back at him. Neville stopped snorting, not liking where this was going and looking a bit apprehensively at his friend.

"I'll take you on. Who's your second?"

"Ron," Harry said automatically. "Who's yours?"

"Me."

Everyone turned round to see Ariadne approach the group, her school robes lightly grazing the floor as she walked over calmly and stood next to Neville.

"Awww, c'mon Ari," Potter wheedled, but the girl shook her head.

"Don't call me that, Potter."

She looked hard at Harry, then at Draco. The former held her gaze fine, albeit with a bit of an indignant exasperation on his face, but the latter was forced to avert his eyes.

"You two buffoons want to settle this once and for all with a wizard's duel? Fine, but I'll be there to make sure neither of you does anything ridiculously stupid, and hold you _both_ to that no contact provision." She glared at both boys as if daring them to contradict her.

Harry sighed.

"Whatever, Ari." He turned his attention back to Draco, looking nastily at him.

"Midnight, trophy room. Be there, Malfoy."

"Looking forward to it, Potter."

Harry nodded to Ron and Seamus, and the three Gryffindors left for their Tower. Neville gave Ariadne a curious look.

"I thought you were staying out of this."

"So did I," Draco grumbled.

"Look, if I let Neville be your second and walk into that duel without me, there's no way of knowing what could happen."

Draco snorted.

"They're Gryffindors, and that means by nature they subscribe to the most rigid and ridiculous perspective of the wizarding world. No offense, Neville," he amended hastily, to which Neville shrugged. He found nothing wrong with Gryffindor idealism in general, but he understood Draco's criticisms about Potter and Weasley's application of it.

"Their code of honor is the same, so I know exactly what will happen: I'll wipe the floor with both of them."

"My my, Quidditch certainly has gone to your head rather quickly!"

Draco scowled at his cousin's biting comment.

"I think their collective dislike for Slytherins, and you in particular, can push that code of honor right off a cliff, Draco. If I'm there, Harry at least will think twice. I'm your insurance that Harry won't go too far."

"And Harry's insurance?" Draco bit out. Ariadne frowned at her cousin, her eyes narrowed.

"I rather thought that Potter and Weasley were bullying you because they can be great gits, not because you yourself are a git. And I assumed if they stopped harassing you, then everything would be normal and fine. I would be very disappointed to find out you'd actually _like _to cultivate a rivalry with Potter."

With that, the girl turned on her heel and flounced away, her long black hair swishing right along with her robes.

Draco sighed.

"She's got a point, Draco," Neville offered.

"She always does, I think. But right now, I can't worry about it. I've got maybe six hours to make sure I beat Potter in this duel. So I'm going to get my orbis from the dungeons and head out to the grounds."

"I'll meet you out there," Neville replied. "At the least, you can practice dodging, although I'm likely to only make sparks."

Draco nodded and swept off towards the Slytherin common room. Neville similarly set a blazing pace towards the Tower. He understood Ariadne's emotions, because he shared similar thoughts and opinions. Clearly, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy did not like each other. But the nasty squabbling of eleven-year old pseudo rivals could evolve rapidly into true hatred if left unchecked. Neville, as a Gryffindor and Draco's friend, and Ariadne, as Draco's cousin and fellow Slytherin and Harry's childhood friend, knew that it would probably get worse before it got better. Either way, Neville felt an acute foreboding that the outcome of tonight's duel would determine the course of all of their relationships. And how the winner acted and the loser reacted would matter with equal weight. That's why Ariadne had claimed a place as Draco's second, and that's why Neville would by any means necessary find a way to be in the trophy room come midnight. Now if only he could figure out a way to be unseen...

* * *

At half eleven, Neville stirred in his very light sleep, and noticed Harry and Ron quietly leaving their beds. He jumped up, threw on a pair of trainers, and followed the boys to the Common Room. The two boys were in a corner of the all but deserted room, whispering furtively to one another. The tall redhead caught sight of Neville, and said something to Harry, who whipped his own head round.

"Alright, Longbottom?"

"I'm coming too."

"Why? You're no one's second."

"Doesn't matter, I'm still coming."

"What do you want to follow Malfoy around for, anyway?"

"We're _friends_, Potter."

"Slytherins don't _have _friends, Longbottom."

"You think Ariadne doesn't have friends?"

"This has nothing to do with Ari!"

"OI!"

The mini-row between Harry and Neville halted in its tracks, as the redhead called for quiet.

"Harry, it's almost quarter to midnight. We'd better get along if we're gonna make it to the trophy room."

Harry scowled.

"Alright, Longbottom, you can come. And it'll be easier if you just come with us, wouldn't want you giving us away to Filch. But you'll keep your mouth shut about everything that happens right now, if you know what's good for you."

Neville crossed his arms and nodded sharply. He had half a mind to retort, but figured it would be better to say as little as possible and get to Draco on time.

Taking his nod as consent to the terms, the green-eyed wizard reached into his bathrobe and pulled out a shimmering, silvery bundle of cloth. Neville watched curiously as Harry swirled it about, and then clapped a hand over his mouth when the boy disappeared from sight entirely!

"An Invisibility Cloak?" He turned to Ron with wide eyes. The redhead nodded.

"Yes, Longbottom, and now if you wouldn't mind," Harry's disembodied voice said testily, "I think the cloak will fit all three of us. Let's get this over with."

A hand popped into existence and beckoned Ron and Neville under the cloak. The three scrunched closely together, stepping slowly out of the portrait hole, where the Fat Lady muttered something unintelligible while dozing in her portrait.

The three made their mostly silent way through the abandoned halls of Hogwarts, all of them cognizant of the fact that the slightest noise could bring Mrs. Norris or Filch, the cat and the caretaker, directly into their path. Neville felt the whole walk was a bit creepy, as the intermittent pale shadows of moonlight were not enough to illuminate the dark corridors. He felt a deep thrill, though the scariness of it all was tempered by Ron's occasional grumbling as Harry or Neville often stepped on the redhead's overtly large feet.

Despite the danger in being out of bounds, the Gryffindors made it to the trophy room undetected and unscathed. Harry reached an arm out from the Invisibility Cloak, and pushed the door open so the boys could sneak inside. After shutting it, the three disengaged from the cloak and the tight quarters the three had uneasily been keeping. It took them a few minutes to do so, as Neville had again tripped over Ron's feet and the redhead had then tangled himself and Harry into the cloak, sending the three of them stumbling across the room flailing beneath the cloak. Neville finally began to emerge to slight laughter.

"After that display, Potter, I don't think you're worthy of such a magnificent magical item."

Of course the drawling voice of Draco came across the room. A second voice shushed him loudly.

"Will you keep it down? Bad enough that they're waltzing across the floor and making tons of noise," came Ariadne's scolding whisper. "Just because you're mostly invisible, Harry, doesn't mean that your words and motions are inaudible."

Neville was now mostly free, and could see the two Slytherins standing next to each other. Draco was wearing a gray jumper, black cloak and black trousers that made him look even more pale. Neville was just able to see that the boy's eyes were the same gray as his shirt. His cousin, Oscar the artist, would have called the color slate, but the Gryffindor only could see that while Draco had truly gray eyes, Ariadne had gray eyes that were kind of blue too. Ariadne was wearing a set of robes in Slytherin green, and Neville wondered how the two in those outfits had evaded detection all the way from the dungeons (where Draco told him the Slytherin common room was) to the trophy room on the third floor.

"I know, Ari," Harry's head poked out from the cloak, and he pulled it from the still invisible Ron. "And what do you mean _mostly_ invisible?"

Draco smirked as his Black cousin sighed exasperatedly.

"Honestly, we could see bits of your legs and arms and sometimes Ron's head poking out when you came barging in."

"Aw who cares," Ron huffed loudly, his ears turning red with embarrassment. "We're here for a duel, right? Let's get on with it."

The two would-be rivals glared at each other. Tension filled the room in a swift shift from the lighthearted entrance of the Gryffindors. The opponents slid into position: Draco and Harry moved back from the other and bowed, as was customary, although Draco's bow was a formal half bow and Harry's was more of a stiff, reluctant jerk. With that, the duel had begun.

Neville wasn't sure what to expect. Oscar said that during the _barneskole _stage of Valhalla (which equaled the first and second years of Hogwarts) his first year Defensive Magic class had had a mini dueling tournament, but that was after a whole year of study and accumulation of spells. What could Draco and Harry possibly do to each other, other than point their wands at each other and glare intently at their opponent, as they were doing now? Both wands were sparking a bit, Draco's a pumpkin orange and Harry's a bold Gryffindor red.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Harry attempted to use the Levitation Spell they had just started learning in Charms class, but he didn't quite pronounce it correctly so his wand simply sparked a bit more.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

Draco attempted the spell as well, but like Harry, it did not work.

The duel continued in this manner for what seemed like ages to Neville. The increasingly frustrated boys were getting more furious, and had resorted to petty insults since their spells weren't quite working yet. He glanced over at Ron, who seemed close to falling asleep, and Ariadne who looked profoundly bored. Neville was glad to be a friend to Draco, but this certainly wouldn't be worth getting caught out of bounds. So when Draco screwed up his face after a particularly nasty comment from Harry about his imprisoned father, Neville wasn't really thinking that anything would, or indeed could, happen.

"_Tarantallegra!_"

For the first time that evening, a spell came out correctly and hit its mark. Ron, Ariadne, and Neville stood dumbfounded, and Harry was so shocked at seeing Draco actually produce the Crazy Legs Hex that he couldn't avoid it, and was forced into a jerky two step. Draco blinked for a moment, then his face widened into a triumphant smile. The black haired, bespectacled boy saw the grin and, in spite of his out of control legs, angrily aimed his wand at Draco.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Draco attempted to dodge Harry's Levitation Charm, but in an unfortunate development turned his body so his cloak was hit with the charm. Immediately the pale Slytherin found himself hoisted in mid-air, sputtering and struggling to undo his hovering cloak that was starting to suffocate him. Harry, meanwhile, had still not gotten his legs under control, and he had just crashed into a rather large bronze gong commemorating something or other. The three bystanders looked at each other in horror.

"We've got to stop this! Mrs Norris could be sniffing around here any minute," Neville said seriously.

"If we don't stop them now, I reckon we'll have Filch, the Bloody Baron, McGonagall _and_ Snape sniffing around in a minute," was Ron's panicked agreement.

Ariadne nodded at the two of them.

"Right, you keep Harry away from any more free-standing objects and for Merlin's sake don't let him near the trophy cabinets. Neville, see if you can get Draco down and if not, get that cloak off him. I'm going to start with cleaning the floor of their spark marks."

The two boys immediately set off to help their friends, Ron going as far as standing directly in front of Harry to keep his legs from carrying him anywhere the redhead didn't want him to go. Neville was in more of a sticky spot, as he wasn't sure what spell would bring Draco down, but he did know a spell to separate the cloak from the boy, something his Aunt Clare had used frequently to separate the three squabbling Rasmussen/Lindhal children from a toy or book they might occasionally quarrel over. He wasn't supposed to use the Norwegian spells he knew, since he wasn't supposed to reveal what other language he knew and by extension where he lived, but he could see that Draco's pale face was draining of color more quickly, and he was desperate to help his friend.

"_Trekkdemhverandre!_"

He said it as quietly as he could and aimed his wand at the cloak. It worked: the cloak came free of Draco's neck, but remained hovering. Taking in a deep breath, Draco made a grab for the cloak so he wouldn't fall back to the floor too hard, but his attempt was for naught.

"_Finite!_"

Ariadne's loud clear voice brought Draco crashing to the floor with his cloak, just missing Neville. The blond boy weakly said thanks, and the young Black girl ran off to perform the spell on Harry. His legs stopped dancing, and the boy promptly fell over and knocked Ron down as well.

"This duel is officially a draw," Ariadne said hurriedly. Draco and Harry gaped at her, but Neville and Ron nodded in agreement. "This could go on all night waiting for each of you to actually hit each other with spells."

"You've been pretty loud, mate," Ron said to Harry. "It's unbelievable Filch hasn't gotten here yet, actually."

With that, all five of the children froze in horror as they heard shuffling from the next room.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they may be lurking in a corner."

Filch and the creepy cat! After all the racket, Neville couldn't believe that the caretaker was now on the verge of finding them. Harry grabbed the Invisibility Cloak and threw it on him, disappearing from view. Ariadne rolled her eyes, and mouthed at all of them to follow her out.

They were creeping along a passageway full of suits of armor, when Draco collided with the invisible Harry and knocked into a suit of armor. The old hunk of iron groaned in protest, then broke into pieces with a terrific crash on the stone floors of Hogwarts.

"Run!" And Ron was hurtling off through the corridors, the lanky redhead moving at top speed. Without pausing to think about it, Neville, Draco, Ariadne (and presumably the invisible Harry) ran after him, afraid that Filch, Mrs Norris, and the entire castle were behind them.

They ran through the passageways until Neville was pretty sure the odd, impromptu group had all made it to the hall adjacent to the Charms classroom. Everyone was panting heavily, but Neville knew the relief on his face mirrored what he could see on the others. They were clear.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty naughty, you'll get caughty."

Peeves the poltergeist was bobbing on the ceiling, taunting them with a malicious gleam in his eyes and a wagging finger.

"Out of the way, Peeves," Ron and Harry chorused, and both boys attempted to wave him away. This proved futile and foolish: Neville had to cover his ears as Peeves screamed at the top of his lungs about students breaking curfew in the Charms corridor.

"This way!" All five followed Ariadne at a run round the corner, to the end of the corridor away from Peeves. There was a door there, and Ariadne was pushing on it hard.

"I can't open it," she said somewhat frantically, her black hair flipping wildly as she shook the doorknob.

Ron strode up and attempted to open it as well. "This is it," he moaned with dread as he pushed on the door to no avail, "We're done for! This is the end!"

"Let me see it," Harry pushed his best friend out of the way. "I hope this spell Dad and Uncle Sirius taught me works. _Alohomora!_" He tapped the lock as he said it, which clicked. The door swung open and the five of them piled in, then jockeyed for positioning to listen at the door for Filch and Peeves.

Neville could hear snippets of the conversation, but couldn't stay crouched on the floor listening. He got up from the floor, and he assumed Harry (based on a brushing by his leg of an unseen person) jumped at the opening to settle into Neville's previous position. He turned round, and saw that he wasn't actually in a room, as he supposed they had been in. They were in yet another corridor, the forbidden third floor corridor to be precise. And he couldn't quite make it out in the dark and through his fear, but he could see multiple rows of huge machete-size teeth hanging from gums, glinting in the moonlight, from various angles. And growling. And now big huge drops of spit that glistened the pointy teeth, and oh no. No, no, no. Neville could see multiple heads on the creature, hence the endless rows of teeth.

He started to walk backward towards the door, slowly. He hit the door and accidentally trod on Harry, who leapt up and yanked his cloak off.

"Now that's it, Longbottom!" Potter yelled indignantly.

"Harry! Potter! Ssssh!" Everyone was hissing at him as Neville fumbled for the doorknob. They had jammed it shut in their desperate effort to keep Filch out, and now Neville was afraid they'd all be eaten because of some stupid duel.

"we've - got - to - get - out - of - here - now," he just managed to get out between shallow breaths.

"What the - oh, Merlin," Harry turned and saw it as well, and Ron, Draco and Ariadne let out little gasps of fear as they too saw the monstrous thing that with distance Neville could now confirm was some kind of _garmrhund_, a hellhound. In Norway, they were named for the bloodstained dog that guarded the gates of Castle Hel and whose howls foretold the great battle between wizards and giants in the golden age of magic. Neville had a fleeting thought of amazement that Aunt Clare, Oscar, and Britta would never believe him, until the fear kicked in again and he figured they'd never believe him because he'd never be able to tell them from inside the belly of such a beast.

The hellhound was eyeing the five, and each horrible head seemed to have a mind of its own. One looked ravenous, with eyes wide and drool pouring from its mouth, but the middle head was enraged and snarling low at the intruders. The third head was sniffing them closely, then snapping at the first head.

"Whatever you're doing, do it faster, Neville," Draco said quietly.

"The door's stuck, but I've nearly got it."

Two things happened at once. The first was Neville finally got the door to unjam, and it swung open. The second was the hellhound's right head, the hungry head, snapped and went for Harry Potter.

Harry had gotten closest to the monstrous dog when he was blustering at Neville. He had started to inch away once everyone had realized what was there, but he wasn't far enough away to avoid the huge bone-crushing jaws of the hellhound. He would have been gone for good, but in the blink of an eye as the dog's neck coiled to snap at Harry, Draco Malfoy tackled Potter and his cloak to the ground so the razor sharp teeth just missed the two boys by inches.

"RUN!"

Everyone yelled it. Ron and Ariadne hoisted the two boys off the floor and sprinted out of the room, and Neville had the good sense to slam the door as hard as he could behind him. They didn't stop running until they reached the trophy room corridor. They caught their breath by wheezing next to the floating staircase that would take the Gryffindors to the seventh floor and the Fat Lady's portrait, and the Slytherins downstairs to the dungeons and their dormitories.

"Mal-foy," Potter panted. No one could quite breathe, but apparently Harry needed to address the Slytherin even without any air in his lungs. Neville looked at the boy: he looked pretty shellshocked. His glasses were who knows where, his hands were shaking clutching his cloak, and his hair stuck out in every imaginable direction.

"Why did you he-help me?"

Draco was trying to take some calming breaths, but he looked coldly at Harry.

"I don't know, Pot-Potter. I didn't re-really think about it."

Silence except for deep breathing by the first-years grateful for air, freedom, and indeed escaping with their lives from the forbidden third floor corridor.

"Oh. Alright then."

Again there was a large pause.

"So are you going to duel him again, Harry?" Ron asked the thought hovering on Neville's mind. Would the rivalry continue, or could a shared near-death experience conquer hate?

Harry shrugged.

"Seeing as I think I might owe him a life debt, probably not."

Neville's jaw dropped. Life debts were extremely serious things, and acknowledging that one owed someone a life debt was even more serious. It was an active affirmation of the deep debt bond between the two wizards. The bond did not require wizards to like each other, Neville knew that at least. Harry Potter did not need to like Draco Malfoy, indeed, he could choose to continue to dislike and duel and taunt the Slytherin. So it was a very confusing thing for Neville. Perhaps Harry wasn't aware of the significance of his statement? But Neville knew that Harry's father was an Auror, so he would have definitely been told about life debts as they related to Auror duties at some point... that was how Neville had learned of them, through Grandmother Longbottom discussing Frank's heroic exploits as an Auror.

Ariadne and Ron were similarly stunned, Ron's jaw hanging open like Neville's.

"We just might be in for it in Quidditch. You've got fast reflexes."

"Thanks."

Would wonders never cease? Neville shook his head as though hearing incorrectly. A life debt acknowledgment, and then a Quidditch compliment? To a member of the rival team who was until five minutes ago a worst enemy? He glanced at Ron and Ariadne. Ron's eyes were practically bulging out of his skull, while Ariadne seemed completely zoned out and caught off guard by the whole direction of the conversation.

Draco and Harry regarded each other seriously, then looked away. The Malfoy scion cleared his throat.

"We should get back to the dungeons. Ariadne?"

Blinking awake from her stupor, Ariadne walked over to Draco.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Good night you lot - and don't get caught!"

The two Slytherin cousins headed quickly down the stairs. The Gryffindors followed suit, and Neville stepped under the Invisibility Cloak with Harry and Ron for the trek up to Gryffindor Tower. They talked in whispers under the cloak.

"Blimey mate! You complimented Malfoy, Harry. _Malfoy! _Are you completely off your rocker?"

"Whatever, Ron. I'd be eaten now if it weren't for him," Harry snapped back in a whisper.

"But _it's Malf-_"

"Oh drop it, would you Weasley?"

There was silence as Ron chose not to respond to Neville's exasperated retort. Neville couldn't see his face under the cloak, but imagined that Ron was probably fairly red and fuming under his breath about interfering Longbottom or something to that effect.

"How do Draco and Ariadne stay unseen?"

"I don't know. Ari's always had a knack for getting into things and places she shouldn't. My dad and the Marauders ran around the school at night tons of times and never got caught."

"Potter, you have an Invisibility Cloak. And I'd guess it was your dad's before he gave it to you?"

"Yeah, true. But Uncle Sirius - Ari's dad - and Uncle Remus must have snuck around somehow. They couldn't have fit four boys at one time under the cloak: it's hard for us and we're only three."

"Four, Potter?" They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was awake and casting her eyes for the source of the sound.

"Pig snout," Harry said shortly, throwing the cloak off all of them. The Fat Lady harrumphed in her portrait and glared at them, but let them in without an argument.

Neville wasn't sure why Potter had avoided the question. The black haired boy didn't speak at all as the three of them went up to their room and got into their pajamas, careful not to wake the slumbering forms of Dean and Seamus. Ron was already snoring slightly in bed, and Harry had gotten into his bed and drawn the drapes.

Neville was about ready to sleep himself, when -

"Longbottom?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"Call me Harry."

Neville paused.

"Alright. Call me Neville, then."

"Alright, Neville."

"OI!"

Ron's loud whisper cut through the tentative dialogue.

"People are trying to sleep around here!"

"Sorry, Ron," the two boys said simultaneously.

There wasn't anymore talking, but Neville turned in his bed with a smile on his face. A crisis was averted, Draco and Harry had formed a sort of truce, and he and Pot-_Harry_ might actually be on the way to being friends. Everyone would get along...

...at least, until Quidditch season started. With that thought, his face fell and he groaned into his pillow, trying not to think about how little sleep he'd have for class the next day.

Neville didn't have any dreams that night with the high, cold laugh and the green light, but he did dream about Harry and Draco riding on flying hellhounds dressed in House colors to play Quidditch.


	10. Vetrnaetr at Hogwarts

_**AN: A Christmas Surprise! I had not been on FF for sometime, and forgot I had started this story. I looked through my notes and realized I had plotted a good portion of the first four books in this AU tale, and didn't want to abandon it just yet. So to any readers, old or new, I am sorry I haven't revisited Neville/Niels in some time. But here's a brand new chapter and I hope **__**to have the following two chapters up in short order!**_

_**I do not own Harry Potter, story not for commercial use. Parts come from "Halloween" of PS. Thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing!**_

* * *

As Halloween approached, the peace between Harry and Draco miraculously continued. It was fortunate to no longer worry about grudges and animosity, especially as the workload increased dramatically after their first weeks of learning the foundations of spell casting and magical theory.

Neville found himself in the library frequently researching an essay for Professor Snape, or practicing charms with the orbis exercito alongside Ariadne and Draco. The Malfoy heir had even less time to do the same work, as the first Quidditch match of the season would be Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and Marcus Flint was obsessed with training and getting Draco "battle ready" as he called it.

"You should see him," Draco told Neville in low tones in the library. "It's like he's possessed by a banshee, the yelling never stops. Montague nearly fell off his broom after the laps we were doing in the rain. I'd tell you to come to a practice and see for yourself, but Flint would probably skin you alive for a Gryffindor spy."

By Halloween, all the first year students were looking forward to a bit of a break with the annual feast. All the first year students except Neville.

Halloween had more or less been ignored in the Lindhal/Rasmussen family. For Norwegian magical beings, the vetrnaetr was an important three day holiday that emerged from the old Norse end of harvest festival It was a time of thanks and remembrance. The Norwegian government and dokalffar leadership exchanged traditional gifts of friendship and reaffirmed their commitment to Norway on publicly broadcast Wizarding Wireless radio programs. Everyday witches and wizards also used the time to renew bonds with neighbors and light candles at the graves of ancestors.

Grandmother Longbottom typically shut herself away for the entire holiday period. Clare and the children meanwhile would, on the third day of the festival, hire a boat on the Trondheimsfjorden. Just before the early sunset, the children would launch small toy boats with burning candles on the waterways in honor of Uncle Johannes and Neville's parents. Norwegian wizards still believed, like their forebears, that the dead and the living worlds were at the thinnest point of separation on the third of vetrnaetr, and while other families might leave candles at cemeteries, Neville and his cousins never had graves to visit. Niels' parents had been buried in England, and though none of the children knew what had happened exactly to Johannes, Clare said there was no grave to go to.

Neville would have preferred to be home and remember his parents rather than feasting in his native land on the day they were murdered. He was rather resignedly planning to attend the feast, when he received a surprise package delivery the morning before Halloween.

He'd been finishing his orange juice when the daily mail swooped in above the Great Hall. To his great surprise, a small parliament of owls dropped a medium sized square package at his plate. He paused, then gave a bit of toast to an owl, unattaching the flapping letter from its talon. The owls flew off. Neville broke open the letter first: it was in English, but in Oscar's handwriting.

_Dear Neville (funny),_

_Hi! I do hope all is well at Hogwarts and that you are having fun._

_Sorry I have not been able to write as much as I had planned. This year is very difficult so far. Still fun though._

_I wanted to send you some small things for Halloween. My teacher Transfigured them with a timer: they look like very standard books on Herbology now, but you can put them to use on your Halloween at sunset._

_Write back soon. I will see you at Longbottom Manor for the holiday celebration._

There was no signature, but instead an artistic flourish that Neville had come to recognize in the corners of Oscar's portraits and landscapes he created. The letter was devoid of any mention of Norway or Valhalla or anything, and Niels' was grateful. They would attempt to hide his country of refuge as long as possible to avoid prying and increased scrutiny on the family.

At least hinting as to the true purpose of the Herbology textbooks, Neville approached Professor McGonogall after Transfiuration that day. He hung back while his classmates streamed out of the room, fiddling anxiously with his tie.

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom?"

The professor arched an eyebrow at her student and he gulped.

"Uh, Professor? I, well, I'd rather not attend the Halloween feast tomorrow and I was wondering if I could, er, just be on the grounds by the lake instead."

The professor looked at Neville closely.

"The Halloween Feast is one of the most anticipated events at Hogwarts for most first year students. Though I imagine, Mr. Longbottom, that you anticipate the holiday's coming and going for very different reasons than your peers."

Neville wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer her or not. It didn't seem like a question. Then McGonagll's face softened a bit, and her tone was much kinder.

"It's understandable that you'd prefer not to partake in the festivities. Your parents were courageous, loving people, and I had the good fortune to teach both of them."

"Thank you, Professor," Neville said quietly after a bit of a pause. The Transfiguration teacher wrote a brief note of permission for the boy, who thanked her once again and exited the classroom.

When Neville mentioned his plans to Ariadne and Draco, he did not expect such an animated, indignant response from Ariadne. She rounded on him after he showed her McGonagall's note.

"You're going to miss feasting to mourn your parents? Alone?"

Neville nodded slowly, not understanding where her wrath was coming from. Ariadne frowned at his nod, then snapped her attention to her cousin.

"And you? You think this is a good idea?"

"Well, I mean, McGonagall gave him permission and this is his tradition..." Malfoy trailed off at her increasingly narrowed eyes.

"Come on. We're all going to see Professor Snape."

"Snape!" The two boys exclaimed in unison.

Black hair swirling, Ariadne eyed them coldly.

"You have a better idea?"

"Look, I know he's Draco's godfather and all and got him on the House Quidditch team, but-"

"He's still the scariest teacher at Hogwarts." Draco finished Neville's sentence for him, and Longbottom nodded at the blonde in agreement.

"He's still our Head of House, and accordingly, is the only person who can excuse us from the feast."

Ariadne's logic was hard to refute. Neville swallowed nervously: his last interaction with Snape had been unmistakably odd and he wasn't eager to seek the professor out without being commanded or required. But he supposed Ariadne was in fact, requiring them, and he knew well enough that she refused to let things go once her mind was made up. He looked at Draco, who shrugged.

"Let's go," she said, turning and marching off towards the dungeons. The two boys followed her down the stairs and corridor, quiet and nervous, until they arrived at the heavy wooden door behind which was the Potions Master.

Ariadne rapped smartly on the door, then quickly pushed Draco to the front.

"What are you doing?"

"It'll be better coming from you, trust me," she muttered furtively as the door opened.

* * *

Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts, had been teaching for a decade at Hogwarts with a distinct lack of good fortune. Instructing the most subtle of the wizarding disciplines to unworthy, bluntly minded students was less than satisfying. Each year, he thought the entering classes successively stupider and more trying than the next. He had believed previously that the apex had been reached when the twin Weasley demons entered Hogwarts hallowed grounds, but he'd not expected the pain and anger that resurfaced when the faces of former enemies became omnipresent in his classes and otherwise.

Ariadne Black and Harry Potter, the spawn of the sources of so much turmoil in his life, were nearly too much for the Professor to handle. Harry Potter, the brash, strutting ponce who was a perfect clone of his self-obsessed father (though Snape did his best to forget who supplied Potter with his bottle-green eyes.) Their mutual hatred was clear to most of Hogwarts. The enmity was decidedly one sided, of course, as Snape with the power and authority of his position could set any number of detentions and embarrassing tasks for Potter based on the smallest mistake or a mere whiff of impertinence. Potter and his cronies occasionally fought back: he had seen "Snivellus" defacing a wall in a water closet in the dungeons, no one in sight to hold culpable but Snape knew. The three that followed Potter were rapidly turning into a junior division of the Marauders, which stirred increased feelings of rage deep within Severus. Seamus, a more bold, bawdy version of Peter Pertigrew; Dean Thomas, a studious boy just slightly aloof, probably due to his purely Muggle background, that could become another Lupin with a push; and of course Weasley, the closest of the circle to Potter, the Sirius to James. He'd hated the mutt nearly as much as he'd hated Potter at school, and the four Gryffindors were increasingly bearing the brunt of that hatred.

Unlike the open enmity with Potter,Snape harbored a more uncertain hatred for the spawn of Sirius Black. He couldn't even take too much pleasure in Miss Black's somewhat surprising sorting into Slytherin. There were moments of schadenfreude to be sure, thinking of the mutt's shame and despair for his Snake daughter, but he still had to deal with and teach the young Black heir, and it wasn't the easiest of tasks. She was smart and somewhat sly, diligent with her studies. Her potions work was nothing prodigious, but he reluctantly admitted that she was more adequate than most of the incompetent fools in the first year. The black hair and gray eyes of her sire always made his skin crawl with revulsion, but for the sake of house unity he avoided open hatred. It was a complicated juggling of emotions and ideas, not least because of her even more surprising and continued friendship with an odd pair of friends themselves: Draco Malfoy, his godson, and Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived.

So when the sharp rapping came upon the door along with a quick shuffling of feet, Snape was not even surprised to see the faces of those three unlikely friends before him.

"Miss Black," he said, lip curling automatically into a sneer. "Mr Longbottom, Mr Malfoy." He looked at the three: Ariadne had her eyes downcast and was silent, but he noted her grimace and hard, glinting eyes. Draco was unbecomingly sucking in his breath as though to speak to Snape, then holding his breath slightly and not letting anything out. Snape inwardly cringed. _I must stamp that out of him. Lucius would strangle himself in his cell to see his son so cowed._

Neville looked nervous, as he often did: Snape didn't make much of the boy that vanquished the Dark Lord. He was a fair student so far, didn't distinguish himself in any subject except Herbology, and had yet to do or say or accomplish anything of note outside of having an odd assortment of friends. More than just the Gryffindor first years found it disconcerting to see the savior of the wizarding world so close with the scion of House Malfoy. Even Ariadne was looked at with some skepticism: Slythetin ties trumped being the child of war hero Sirius Black, at least at Hogwarts.

"Professor Snape," and his attention snapped to Ariadne. It seemed she had tired of waiting for Draco to lead. "We'd like to ask your permission to be excused from the Halloween feast today."

He sneered at her. "Too good to dine with all and sundry, Black? Your father felt very similarly about himself and his place in the school."

"No sir, I am not above anyone or anything," the girl responded. She kept her eyes downcast but was gritting her teeth. "It's about Neville, sir."

"So, our celebrity student is above mixing with the hoi polloi? What authority has excused you from the feast, Mr Lingbottom? Or were you too planning to appeal to me as well?"

"N-no sir," Nevilke stammered, hastily pulling from his robe pocket a slightly crumpled note. "Professor McGonagall excused me."

Snape took the note from the ashen-faced boy. He read it swiftly.

"So she did, Mr Longbottom. I see no reason why your reluctance to dine with the students should impact my Slytherins, nor even why she would have excused you at all."

"Professor Snape? It's because of his parents, sir." Draco finally broke in softly, and raised his eyes to meet his godfather's. Snspe said nothing.

Sensing an opening, Ariadne hurriedly continued.

"Neville doesn't celebrate Halloween as much as commemorate his parents' bravery and mourn their loss. It would be cruel to send him to the feast, surrounded by happy students. And as his friends, it would be cruel to let him grieve alone."

"Last I checked, loyalty was a Gryffindor trait, Miss Black."

"But self-preservation is a Slytherin trait, sir," came Draco's voice.

"Being close to Neville is a good thing for the Gruffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs. And everyone who writes home cant help but talk about it. It puts me and my mother on the side of the Light, and it means the Malfoy name is slightly less monstrous than maybe it was before."

Draco grew quiet here, and Snape looked at his godson impassively, but with mild concern underneath. He knew Draco would have a difficult time as the son of a known and feared imprisoned Death Eater, but perhaps the first few weeks had been harder on the boy than he'd previously thought.

"Ambition is too," Ariadne added, and Snape turned his attention on her, frowning. "Power, prestige... Neville made the Daily Prophet front page shaking hands with the Prime Minister before he even got on the train to Hogwarts. There's tremendous influence and clout that comes with an association with Longbottom, at school and in the wider community."

As Ariadne spoke, looking straight at him, Snape brushed her mind with Legilimency. She was being mostly truthful, though she did like Neville for separate personal reasons as well. But her approach was to appeal to Snape from a Slytherin perspective, believing that to be the most effective way to get what they wanted. Turning his gaze on his godson, he found the same: a truthful declaration, strong personal affection for the boy, with some twists and slight oversell to appeal to Slytherin logic. It was a cunning gambit, he noted, and that too was Slytherin. Brushing Longbottoms mind he sensed confusion, betrayal, sadness... _Ah, so they hasn't let Longbottom in on their little plot and he takes their words at face value_, Snape mused. _Interesting_.

"Very well." And Snape promptly shut the door in their faces.

The Potions master had been called sadistic before: he now imagined the sniping ensuing between the two Slytherins, and the quiet fury building in the Longbottom boy. He signed two identical pieces of parchment, gave another thirty seconds pause, and flung open the door.

"It was your bloody plan!"

"And if you'd opened your mouth when I told you, Malfoy, maybe it would have worked!"

The cousins were at each others throats, and Neville was casting scowls at both of them, but he saw Snape first.

"Hello, Professor." And the squabbling Slytherins stopped immediately and turned to regard their Head of House.

"Your permission forms," Snape said blandly, holding them both out to Malfoy. "Now get out of my sight before I take points from Slytherin for unbecoming conduct in the halls." The three gave quiet thanks and hurried away. Snape closed his door and shook his head slightly: if they managed to maintain a friendship, if they could succeed where he and Lily could not... His thoughts betrayed him. Clearing his mind with Occlumency and affecting his normal sneer, Snape prepared himself for the annual racket of the Halloween feast. He resolved not to devote anymore time today the three unlikely friends.

* * *

The Slytherin cousins exchanged tremendous sighs of relief as they sped away from Snape's office.

"You'll go with Neville to the lake?" Ariadne looked to take charge and get things moving forward. Draco nodded in reply.

"Right, so I'll nick us some food. Neville, do you need anything specific? Neville?"

Draco and Ariadne turned round: the Gryffindor had fallen behind both of them, shuffling down the corridor slowly. The betrayal and shock distracted Neville from hearing Ariadne. He felt heat rising, inflaming his cheeks as he looked at the two Slytherins. Both looked at him with concern.

"Neville, are you alright?"

"No," the boy said quietly, letting his voice grow in strength. "No, I'm not alright."

There was a long pause. Neville clenched his fists and finally let it out.

"I can't believe you're only my friends for fame."

The confusion and concern vanished from Ariadne's face quickly. Draco's dissolved more slowly, like a cloud clearing up.

"Ariadne, go ahead to the kitchens and meet us by the lake. I'll explain it to Neville."

The Black heir gave her cousin a searching look, and he nodded at her. Her gray eyes softened looking at Neville, and then she walked away. Draco regarded his friend, then said in a calm, low voice, "it wasn't going good, with Professor Snape. Trying to get the forms, I mean... He wasn't going to give them to us. As soon as he said Ariadne was behaving like a Gryffindor, we weren't going to get them. So I went in a different direction, using a Slytherin perspective, with enough truth and logic in it to avoid being a lie altogether. I'm sorry that it- that we made you feel badly."

Neville absorbed all the information quietly.

"We're true friends, Neville," Draco added forcefully. "Especially me. You stood up for me in the duel with Potter, during flying lessons, and you don't care about my - my father or anything." There was a brief pause, and the pale blonde continued, "and I, I don't care that you're the Boy Who Lived. You're just Neville, and you are a really good friend."

It was a lot of emotion for two eleven year old boys to deal with. Neville was oddly embarrassed by Draco's words, but reassured. They both awkwardly grinned at each other, and then broke out into light laughter.

"So all's well?"

"Yes," Neville replied. "Alright let me grab a few things from the common room. I'll meet you at the lake."

Draco nodded. "Hurry up, though, I'm starving! Hope Ariadne got the dinner worked out by now."

Sure enough, by the time Neville made it to the lake with the "textbooks" in tow, Ariadne had managed her kitchen trick again: pasties and pocket pies, along with apples and cider. They ate everything sitting together on the lawn overlooking the lake, rising just as the sun began to dip in the sky, bringing beautiful red and orange rays to reflect and glint on the waters surface. Neville's Herbology textbooks quickly changed into boats with the last rays of the setting sun.

The ceremony was short and poignant. In the presence of Draco and Ariadne, Neville dared not repeat the words he knew Aunt Clare and Britta had spoken on the Trondheimsfjorden, that Oscar had spoken while launching his own boats of remembrance at Valhalla. So instead, the three transfigured boats were launched in silence on the Hogwarts lake. If Ariadne or Draco wondered who or what the third boat represented, they did not pry, and for that, Neville was grateful.

"Thank you both," Neville said softly. "You didn't have to skip the feast. But you did, and it's nice to have company, friends..."

Draco fidgeted, and Ariadne spoke for both of them.

"What are friends for? But I bet they're only halfway through: maybe we can sneak in and grab some extra food."

As eleven year-old boys do, Draco and Neville found the prospect of more food to be a great idea.

The three walled up to the castle, entering through the dungeon door Professor Snape had left open for them. They were about to turn into the corridor to head up the stairs to the feast in the Great Hall, when Draco stopped them.

"Do you hear that?"

Nevulle strained his ears. He could just vaguely make out the sound of footsteps and a large rumbling. He looked at the Slytherins, who were similarly looking nervous.

"TROLL!"

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley appeared as though out of nowhere, in a full on sprint panting and waving. The Gryffindors almost ran them over, but the loud growls of the hulking troll behind them spurred all five to continue running through the dungeons.

Neville turned over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the troll. Trolls had originated in Scandanavia, and Norway had its share of the three main kinds of trolls. He knew from its pale-grey flesh, bald head, and ice blue eyes that this was a mountain troll, the most aggressive and vicious of all the troll breed, and at that realization, his panic grew.

"In here!"

The five first-years ducked into a bathroom, and all quickly pressed themselves against the door.

"What are you lot doing down here?"

"Well," replied Potter, bracing himself against the wood as it shook from the blows of the troll's club, "we were trying to find Hermione."

"Hermione?" Neville and the Slytherins echoed.

"You were looking for me?"

With a small click, one of the stalls swung open, and the bushy-haired first year in question stood puzzled in the doorway.

"Yes," Harry said and elbowed Ron in the ribs. Weasley yelped, and grew redder. The door shuddered again.

"Err right. Hermione, I shouldn't have said that about you, and I'm sorry."

"We knew you didn't know about the troll," Harry added, "and Parvati said you were in a loo in the dungeons so we came to warn you."

"Wonderful, Harry, Weasley, just in time for us to all die together," Ariadne snapped nervously.

As if on cue, the troll's club burst through the door. The creature then stuck its face through the gaping hole to growl ferociously at the first years.

"Get away from the door! Wands out!"

Harry yelled, voice shaking somewhat. Neville didn't even question Potter, and neither did the others. They all backed up into the sinks, as far away from the door as they could go.

"Now what?" Draco asked.

"Erm..." And the six first years looked at each other. Neville thought he might drop his wand, his hands were shaking so much.

The troll didn't give them much time to think. In another second it had crashed through the door, swinging its club and bellowing.

"Look out!" The troll swung the club at them: they lunged and rolled out of the way, but Neville saw that he and Ariadne had been separated from the others. To his dismay, the troll noticed too, and turned his beady eyes on the two more vulnerable, easier targets. It grunted again, and saliva ran down its chin.

At the same time the panicked first-years said the same things that came into their minds.

"_Lumos_!" "_Rictumsempra_!"

Neville's light charm, partially powered by adrenaline, flared brightly in the trolls face, who was distracted and angered by the momentary blindness. Meanwhile, Ariadne's tickling charm hit the troll in its arm: it wasn't quite strong enough to affect the whole body, but the being did lower its club.

"_Rictumsempra_!"

Ariadne had repeated the spell, and she wasn't the only one. While one first year spell had not been quite enough, adding Draco and Harry's tickling charms sent the troll's arm into a small conniption, and the club fell to the floor.

"_Wingardium leviosa!_"

Both Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley had similar ideas: the club promptly levitated overhead and fell, knocking the troll out with a thud and a loud crack of broken tiles.

"Ugh," said Harry, crawling over its body, "this thing smells horrible."

"What in Circe's name is going on?!"

Neville's heart dropped hearing the thunderous tones of his Head of House. He and his fellow first years turned to see Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape arriving at the scene. McGonagall in particular looked furious, Snape was looking equally murderous and kept his harshest stares for Potter and Weasley, while Flitwick was plainly shocked at seeing the unconscious troll on the floor and the students unharmed.

"Potter, Weasley, Granger, Malfoy, Black, explain yourselves!"

Neville hated to admit it, but he felt a little relieved that McGonagall had excluded him from her rant. All were silent, until Ariadne spoke first.

"Professor Snape gave Draco and I permission to accompany Neville," she answered. "We were on our way back to join the feast when we saw Harry and Ron being pursued by the troll, and we fled too."

"Is this true, Malfoy?" The pale blond nodded under McGonagall's frosty glare, which didn't lessen for an instant as she then zeroed in on her Lions.

"And why were you in the dungeons at all, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, expressly disobeying the Headmaster's instructions to return to your common room?"

"Please, Professor McGonagall - they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

"I went looking for the troll because I - I thought I could deal with it on my own - you know, because I've read all about them."

Ron nearly dropped his wand. Neville was shocked. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?

"If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. And then they all ran in here and held the door as long as possible. Then Neville blinded the troll and Ariadne, Harry and Draco tickled it so it dropped its club. Ron and I levitated the club and it knocked the troll out."

"That's true, Professor McGonagall," Harry piped in.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Black, can you confirm?" Professor Snape asked his charges. Neville could see the hackles rising on Harry at Snape's blatant disregard for his endorsement of Hermione's version of events.

Both Slytherins gave nods of assent, trying to pretend that the tale was absolutely accurate.

"Very well. You'll each serve two detentions with Filch repairing and cleaning this lavatory. Ten points to Slytherin for cunning and using a simple spell to deprive a mountain troll of its weapon."

He looked at Potter, who had been excluded from the points, with a cold expression. McGonagall's nostrils flared. Neville looked up at her, concerned but eager.

"While I disagree with Professors Snape's decision to award points, I will treat my Gryffindors fairly," she said, looking at her colleague in rebuke.

"Therefore, Miss Granger, I am taking 10 points from Gryffindor for your foolhardy behavior and failure to obey rules. Mr. Longbottom, Potter, and Weasley, you will earn 5 points each for your courage and determination to help a classmate. And you will all serve the two detentions with Miss Black and Mr Malfoy."

Snape looked at McGonagall but merely nodded.

"Now return to your common rooms. Immediately."

Neville found himself jumping to obey those silky tones of Snape, and he wasn't the only one. The six first years exited quickly, Ariadne and Draco muttering quick farewells to the Gryffindors as they headed down the passage to their common room. On the long walk back to Gryffindor Tower, none of the Lions spoke until just outside the portrait.

"Thanks." Harry and Hermione said it simultaneously, and no other words needed to be said. The bookworm hurried through the portrait hole, and just then the Weasley twins stuck their heads out.

"Oi! Where've you lot been?" Fred demanded.

Harry laughed jauntily.

"The usual, Fred, knocking out mountain trolls in the girls lavs."

"What?"

"He's right," Ron added. "We did. Neville too, and Hermione."

"Incredible!" The twins exchanged amused and amazed grins. Neville felt faintly pleased, but then amended, "and Draco and Ariadne helped too."

Ron scowled at Neville and rolled his eyes.

"Can't we have a moment of victory without giving Snakes the credit?"

Harry shrugged. "They _were_ there, mate."

"Who cares if the slimy Slytherins were there! Now tell us everything," Fred demanded, pulling his brother through the portrait.

"You too, Harry, Longbottom." George bowed from the waist and ushered the two inside. Then yelled at the top of his lungs, "OI! Who wants to hear about ickle firsties knocking trolls out?"

Thirty minutes later, half the house had gathered to hear the tale, made longer by the frequent questions by Dean and Seamus, and comic asides from the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan. Though Harry took the lead, Ron had good contributions and to his surprise, both boys made efforts to include Necille in the telling, and the house was eager for the perspective of the Boy-Who-Lived. When the tale was finally told, all assembled were in awe of their first year troll destroyers.

"I think," Fred Weasley said solemnly, standing upon a sofa, George nodding beside him in concurrence, "nay, I declare, this to be the coolest, and probably bravest thing Gryffindor first years have ever done. All in favor?"

"Aye!" The common room avowed as one, and promptly broke into cheers for the Lions.

Neville had never felt so happy to be a Gryffindor.


End file.
